


God Only Knows

by sylva



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1d Hiatus, Canon Compliant, Kid Fic, Louis and Harry had to break up but it's alright because they bond over Louis' baby, M/M, Romance, Zayn is minimal I'm sorry, non-au, who is called Poppy for the purposes of this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:06:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 48,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5323379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylva/pseuds/sylva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>It's a picture of some careless, casual kiss just for the sake of it, some random moment in amongst the thousands they had shared from 2010-early 2012. And isn't that all the more incriminating, really. That kissing Louis had been such a common occurrence back then that he's capable of forgetting it.</em><br/> </p><p>Harry and Louis haven't kissed — haven't been anything but bandmates and possibly, awkwardly friends — for four years, but now everyone knows it was real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An entirely self-indulgent fic which occurred when I imagined what would happen if a hypothetical picture of Harry and Louis kissing surfaced online...and then I wanted to involve a baby...
> 
> Thanks to Anna for helping me plot everything out and being general shoulder to cry on over facebook whenever I found another flaw in the story — without you I'd never actually write anything. 
> 
> This is a work of fiction.

It really is quite an unpleasant shock, Harry thinks, to be greeted first thing in the morning with the knowledge that the entire world knows you used to be really gay with your bandmate.

Someone’s leaked a picture to the press of the two of them kissing, and perhaps the surrealist part of all this is that Harry doesn’t even really remember the kiss. Because it would make more sense, surely, if the picture that finally undid their management’s carefully constructed denials was of some huge, sweeping romantic gesture, something that made Harry’s toes curl just to think about it. It’s not, though. It’s a picture of some careless, casual kiss just for the sake of it, some random moment in amongst the thousands they had shared from 2010-early 2012. And isn’t that all the more incriminating, really. That kissing Louis had been such a common occurrence back then that he’s capable of forgetting it. 

His phone buzzes as he continues to stare a little faintly at the newspaper. It’s unsettling, seeing the band’s worst kept secret finally spread out on the front page, with the words, ‘PLAYING FOR A DIFFERENT DIRECTION?’ printed in huge font over a blurred, but recognisable, picture of Harry (his textbook 17-year-old curls unmistakable) and Louis kissing in what looks to be the corner of some studio. It’s a chaste kiss, thankfully, but then they didn’t often go making out in the company of people they didn’t trust, had known when to keep it subtle. Or — well, actually now it seems like they’d been a lot more reckless than he’d initially thought. Not for the first time in the last hour, Harry wonders who took this picture, who leaked it, and why only now? 

But he’s already gone down that train of thought enough to know that it leads nowhere, that there’s too many variables and possibilities and really it doesn’t matter. After all, the picture’s already out.

He checks his phone, remembering that it just buzzed, and wondering if it’s another concerned person having just seen the picture. Sure enough, it’s a text from Zayn reading, _u ok mate?_

He isn’t really sure if he’s okay or not, to be honest, but he texts back, _I’m alright x_ , regardless. He’s already had his mum and Gemma and Nick all ringing up and offering for him to come home, have whoever leaked it beaten ferociously up, and to bring over his biggest bottle of vodka, respectively, and Jeff keeps sending sympathetic emoticons, so he’s not sure what anyone else can really offer.

The thing is, Harry really _should_ be fine. He and Louis called off their relationship in early 2012 after pressure from their management and a mutual reluctant agreement that they should focus on the band — them dating creating too many possibilities for things to go wrong, and neither wanting to come out just yet. At the time, obviously, it had been awful, because Harry had still been so in love with him, had wanted nothing more than to be with him, and yet had had to pretend that all he felt was platonic, but that had after all been _four years ago._

For a while, he’d thought he was over it. The band had been amazingly successful, he’d been fulfilling his dream, and anything with Louis had just taken the backburner. Things had still been difficult, obviously, what with the empty jolt of longing he’d get, sometimes, when he thought back to what they’d been — and even when he hadn’t been consciously yearning, it had been there. Like with Taylor: falling in love with someone quickly and recklessly, maybe a little desperately, is never going to be a good idea, not when you’re rushing and confident and falling out of control, not when you’re searching for something you’re not going to find, lying to yourself and unfair to her. And yet Harry had; he’d been stupid, been thoughtless and hurtful, even though hurting her had been the last thing he’d wanted to do. He’d just been so _certain_ he wasn’t in love with Louis anymore. Even after Taylor, he’d never let himself admit it, had had no doubt that Louis and him were a thing of the past. 

He’d had to, is the thing. Losing Louis had been so excruciatingly, indescribably awful — seeing everyone still convinced by them, over-thinking every touch he made towards him, and watching their friendship crumble — it had all hurt so much that Harry had had no choice but to get over Louis as quickly as possible. He’d had no choice but to shove it all down, swallow hard around the stubborn part of him that whispered _screw it all, isn’t he worth it?,_ and get on with his life and his career and his charming smiles. Which is why it had been _such_ a relief when he was finally able to look Louis in the eye again and not feel his stomach muscles clench with how much he missed him, when he’d been able to laugh and joke with him and not constantly feel like it wasn’t enough. Such a relief that, for a time, he’d made it past the pain. 

But the thing was, everything had gotten...messy. Muddled. Because, well, maybe Harry had known that he and Louis weren’t a thing anymore, and that they couldn’t be a thing any time soon, but maybe Harry had always sort of imagined despite this that they would be, you know, one day. After the band and everything had settled down. After management had stopped breathing down their necks. 

But then Louis had gone and had a baby with someone else. 

As if on cue, his phone buzzes again, this time lighting up with a message from Nick reading, in its entirety, _stop moping._

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up, affronted and faintly annoyed at Nick’s presumption, and then lower sheepishly as he realises that he is indeed moping. 

Still, a broken man can retain his pride, so he texts back, _I’m not._ , including a full stop at the end to show his displeasure. And then feels bad and follows it up with a swift _x._

_pathetic_ , is what Nick replies with, and Harry wonders (not for the first time) why he is actually friends with people who disregard his personal well being to such an extent. Before he can compose the perfect scathing-but-not-too-rude response, however, he sees that Nick has just cut to the chase and is calling him.

“Hello?” he picks up, his own morbid voice sounding all the more morose than usual. 

“God, you’re a wreck,” Nick greets him, scornful. “Where’s that infamous popstar charm?”

“What, I can’t be sad just because I’m famous?” Harry demands, maybe a little sulkily. 

“Aw, is Hazza sad?” 

“Shut up, Nick.” Nick just happens to be one of few people Harry has actually confessed his returning feelings for Louis to (the others being Jeff and Gemma, but Harry hardly doubts the rest of the world hasn’t figured it out if the tumblrs dedicated to them and Niall’s occasional raised eyebrows are anything to go by) so the arse knows full-well that Harry is sad. 

“My offer of a large bottle of vodka still stands, Styles. You can drink him out of your system.”

“Would that work?” Harry finds himself asking, like an idiot, despite knowing perfectly well that Nick Grimshaw is full of shit and if he still feels this gone for Louis after four years then a bottle of vodka and some alcohol poisoning aren’t gonna do it. 

“You can sure-as-hell try,” Nick answers cheerfully. “Or, if you don’t feel like vodka we can go out and drink as many ridiculously coloured cocktails as we can. On your tab.”

“Thanks,” Harry drawls. “Good to see I’ve clearly surrounded myself with people who really care.”

“Oh, Harry, you’ll make me blush.”

Harry’s unamused expression, whilst undoubtedly effectively sobering, is lost on Nick due to the fact he can’t actually see him — which is a shame as Harry is confident it would have had him quaking in his boots — so he falls back onto the power of sarcasm.

“Ha. Ha.”

“I love you too, popstar. But — look, Harry, there’s no point moping around your flat like some kind of damp cave-dwelling monster. I’m sure if you had it your way you’d marinade in your sulking for weeks on end until your hair is all limp and gross...gross _er_ , I should say — ”

“Hey,” Harry protests, but Nick ignores him.

“—but you can’t do that, because you’re supposed to be spending this year hiatus working on your solo work and building a name, or something. Plus it’s just one dumb photograph. So _what_ if the world knows you used to date Louis, now? Everyone knew it anyway. You’re a flamboyant man and were a very unsubtle teenager. Beyond that this is just the same situation as the past year of Louis-being-a-dad drama, which you’ve managed to get through all right, even if you have practically talked my ear off about your crushed dreams.”

Harry sighs. “It’s not just that everyone knows,” he admits, playing with the frayed edges of his jumper sleeves. “I haven’t really cared about that for ages now — you _know_ that. It’s just…” he pauses, feeling stupid, but Nick makes an encouraging noise, and Harry decides his friend has _some_ limits, and isn’t going to mock him for this. “It’s just _seeing it._ Seeing how we used to be it...it sucks. And now everyone’s going to be asking about it and making jokes about it and half the world is no doubt going to be fucking _insufferable_ about it and — and maybe I don’t want to have to spend the next month talking about Louis and I and being polite and pretending I don’t still feel all the same things as I fucking did when I was 17. Only now Louis’ moved on and I’m just being stupid.”

Nick makes a disagreeing noise, but Harry’s not done yet.

“And I don’t want to spend the next five months being analysed for any remaining feelings for him. I don’t want to have to be aware of every muscle in my face and whether or not it’s looking affectionate. I — I don’t want everyone to see how gone I am for him, and...you know. With no hope.”

His voice ends quietly, trailing off, and he kind of regrets saying all that much. Nick’s quiet for a few moments. 

“Yeah, maybe that is worth a little mope,” he admits eventually, and Harry can feel smug about that at least. “Look, do you want me to come over? I’ll bring the vodka, but we don’t have to drink any. Could just watch some crap on TV. I could plait your hair while you embroider an anti-Seaworld banner.”

Harry rolls his eyes — Nick never did stop giving him shit for the Seaworld thing — but finds himself smiling nonetheless. Maybe there is a reason he keeps Nick around, after all. 

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees. 

****

Of course management want to talk to him about the photo, and they make him come in for a meeting at the arse-crack of the morning the next day, which doesn’t really mix well with the slight hangover he has from Nick’s vodka last night. A tight-lipped woman sits across from him at the unnecessarily long table and asks whether he had anything to do with the picture being leaked, which is a little insulting. As if Harry would sell a picture of himself to the _Daily Mail._ As if he’d do that to Louis. (Who, thank God, has been contacted in L.A., so Harry doesn’t have to look him in the eye just yet. They haven’t mentioned the whole ‘we used to date’ thing for some time.)

Then, the woman moves on to disarming the situation. 

“It’s a little tricky, we admit,” she says, flipping through some mysterious sheets of paper which presumably have charts on public opinion or something, although — considering the picture only appeared in the tabloids yesterday — he’s not sure how accurate they’ll be. “The photo is clearly you and Louis, and despite our best efforts the internet has been expecting evidence like this to surface for some time.”

She purses her lips together in distaste, while Harry ponders on the fact that all of the Modest! workers seem to refer to themselves in the plural, as though the whole company were some sentient, anthropomorphic hive mind. 

“Yet, we’re thinking it still might be possible to recover this...it is, after all, an old and blurred picture. Given the pre-existing reputation of your fans, we could probably whip up some possible pictures of you and Louis separate, make it look like a manip…”

Harry stares at her. “What?”

“...there have been actual manips like that before, so it’s not too radical a story...and what with Louis’s baby, there’s already a clear heterosexual narrative in the press...we just need to set you up with someone high profile again — maybe a model? We’ll have to look into it…”

“I don’t want to pretend to date someone,” Harry interrupts her, slowly. “I thought we were done with that.”

She shoots him a look that’s hardly sympathetic. “Yes, Harry, but that was _before_ this picture came and threw a spanner in the works. We understand that this is difficult for you, but this story is everywhere. The public are eating it up and it’ll be all anyone talks about for _months_ — ”

“So let them talk about it!” He snaps, finished with her excuses. Of course he should have known management wouldn’t just accept everyone knowing he and Louis weren’t straight — maybe he didn’t want to have to deal with people knowing about him and Louis, but it’s a damn sight better than having to hide again. “They all _know_ now! There’s no point in trying and failing to cover it up —”

“Mr. Styles, we have to think about your _careers._ It’s not the right time — ”

“The right _time?”_ he scoffs, and he’s barely ever this angry. “It’s never the right time! You said that in 2012 and we broke up because it wasn’t the right _time_ for everyone to know about us. You said that in 2014 when I wanted to come out — said I had to think about everyone else in the band. That it wasn’t the right _time._ Well, the band’s as good as over now — you keep wanting to talk about my possible career, about all the possibility of going solo, so there’s no _band_ to think about. It’s just me, and I don’t want to pretend anymore! This is the best fucking time you’re going to get!”

“There’s no need to be crass, Mr. Styles,” the woman says coolly, and she’s right but Harry isn’t happy about it. “We understand if you want to come out now that you’re thinking about solo — advisable or _not_ — but unfortunately it’s not quite that simple. It’s not just you we have to think about.”

He’s confused, now. “What?”

“Mr. Tomlinson has asked that we do our best to cover your past relationship up.”

And it’s like being punched in the stomach. _Louis...what?_ Harry can only gape at her as all the air leaves his lungs, unable to speak or breathe or think. 

“Oh,” he manages to get out after a few moments, dropping his gaze to the table. Louis is ashamed of him. Louis wants management to cover them up, even when it’s a nigh-on impossible task. Oh. 

“You understand, then, why this is so difficult for us,” the woman continues, seemingly oblivious to the turmoil of emotions Harry feels swirling inside of him right now. “Perhaps it is best if you and Mr. Tomlinson discuss the matter — we had assumed you had.”

That hurts, too. It would have made sense for him and Louis to talk about it. Would have made sense for Louis to run _complete denial_ through Harry first before requesting it. But then, he and Louis don’t talk much these days. 

“It’s probably advisable for you to travel to L.A, then, as Mr. Tomlinson can’t very well leave his child just to talk. The sooner you both come to a conclusion, the better, if you want anything we do to be successful.” She flicks her eyes up and down Harry, and then hums. “Well, as always, thank you for coming in on such short notice, Mr. Styles. We hope to be hearing from you and Mr. Tomlinson with further instruction shortly.”

****

Harry doesn’t book a flight immediately upon returning home, even though he sort of feels like the woman will find out and scold him for it. He just...he’s just not sure how to face Louis, now. How to look him in the eye and know he’s ashamed of him. 

He doesn’t tell Nick, either, because he’s pretty sure Nick’s never really liked Louis all that much, and he doesn’t want to listen to him tear the boy Harry’s in love with to shreds, no matter how he’s feeling at the moment. He does, however, receive several texts from Niall, despite not having properly spoken to him for several months — this year break thing meaning their schedules rarely align. 

The texts read:  
_playing for a different direction? that doesn’t even make sense_  
_honestly the once in a lifetime punning opportunity and they blew it_  
_two bi guys in one band and they didn’t go with ‘more than one direction’? smh_

Harry stares at his phone screen for a few seconds, before snorting to himself, albeit wetly. Trust Niall to focus on the pun. 

_I’ll be sure to file a complaint x_ he sends back, before suddenly remembering that Niall is also in L.A., and cautiously sending _Hey Niall? Have you spoken to Louis recently?_

Niall takes a while to reply, and Harry is sort of bricking it by the time his phone lights up with a response: _yh mate, but we didnt mention you if thats what u mean…_

Harry’s not sure how he feels about that. _Did he mention wanting modest to deny the picture?_ he sends, tentatively. Again, it’s a little while for Niall to respond, and Harry wonders if he’s doing something else, or if he just feels awkward. 

_um, he did, why?_

_I don’t want them to. I want to come out._

_ah_ Niall texts back, this time immediately. _u talked to lou about that?_

Harry sighs. _Not yet._

_well, the sooner the better mate…_

God, he wishes people would stop telling him that. For a moment, he considers asking Niall to tell Louis that Harry is coming to L.A. to talk to him, but then he remembers he’s a grown man and Nick would never let him live that down if he did, so he texts, _Yeah. Thanks, Niall x_ , books a plane to Los Angeles, and then sends Louis a message. 

_Hey, we need to talk about what we want modest to do about the picture. I’m coming to LA, I’ll call you when I’m there._

****

Harry’s used to paparazzi by now, but it’s been a while since it’s been this bad, and a long time since practically all the questions were about him and Louis. 

There are absolute hordes of them waiting for him outside LAX airport, all shouting and screaming about Louis and whether Harry wants to comment on whether they’re in love or how he feels about Louis’ baby, and it’s...surreal. Because the last time it was this bad, he and Louis were genuinely dating. It feels like the world had taken note of how bad his feelings for Louis were getting again, watched him google image babies and imagine a life where he and Louis adopted one together and lived happily ever after, and decided to slap him round the face with how good it had been. First the picture of the two of them kissing that he may or may not have saved on his phone, and now this visceral memory of walking through airports or down the streets, side-by-side with his _boyfriend_ so their shoulders brushed, with people shouting overwhelming questions at them about the nature of their relationship.

It’s hardly his fondest memory of the time, but as he ducks his head away from the camera flashes it feels so real and so recent that he feels like it’s stuck in his throat, that no matter how hard he swallows he can’t clear away that sense memory of Louis’ shoulder brushing his, his palm itching to take his hand but his head sticking straight ahead, hardly daring to look at Louis in case someone realised what they were. He’s hit with such a cloud of nostalgia that he thinks it might even be worse than that time he got drunk and watched ‘Top 30 Most Iconic Larry Stylinson Moments’ on youtube whilst crying. Not...not that that ever happened. 

_“Hey, Harry! Will you comment on the picture?”_

_“Harry, when did you and Louis break up?”_

_“Thoughts on Louis and Briana’s baby, Harry? Are you jealous?”_

_“Harry! Harry! Over here!”_

_“Harry! Were you and Louis in love?”_

To an extent, the familiarity of _head-down-avoid-eye-contact_ is reassuring, something he knows how to handle — unlike the knowledge that, even now, Louis wants to hide what they were. Still, it’s as much of a relief as ever to finally get to the car, someone swiftly shutting the door behind him and the immediate quiet surrounding him. He wonders how the paparazzi would react if he just stopped and answered all their questions — ‘we broke up in early 2012, yes I am incredibly jealous, and I at least _thought_ we were in love’ — imagines their surprised and quickly predatory expressions, and smiles wryly at the image of the tight-lipped woman from Modest! dropping her head onto her desk in exasperation.

He doesn’t call Louis immediately upon arriving, despite having told him he would, because he’s a bit of a coward and he wants to get to his own house here and panic for an hour or two, maybe shower, before seeing him again. He also maybe wastes a little too much time deciding what to wear after the shower, and maybe picks what he thinks are his best jeans and a flowy top, but. Well. It’s been a while and he wants to at least feel like he looks nice when he’s in an awkward situation, sue him. 

And even then, he doesn’t call Louis. Instead he texts him, despite knowing that he’s being petty and stupid and he’s talked to Louis a thousand times before, has told him things he hardly tells anyone.

_Hey, I’m in LA now. When do you wanna talk? They want it to be as soon as possible._

Louis responds almost immediately, which is gratifying at least. _I’m at Niall’s rn, sorry,_ is the first one, swiftly followed by, _Actually he says you should just come over?_

Harry doesn’t miss the lack of emojis, or the newfound penchant for punctuation, and feels a slow, creeping horror at the stilted awkwardness of their communication steep over him. He wonders, not a little despairingly, if they’ll ever be able to talk comfortably again. Still, he agrees, ignoring the lump in his throat, and makes his way over to Niall’s house. 

God, he’s about to look Louis in the eyes knowing practically every tabloid in both the UK and the US has had a picture of the two of them snogging on it for the past 72 hours, knowing that this knowledge must make Louis’ skin crawl with regret. And then he has to somehow change Louis’ mind so he can come out as bisexual. It’s not what you’d call a typical get-together. 

The journey to Niall’s is not nearly long enough for Harry’s liking. He drives under the speed limit, fiddles with the radio, and points out weird choices of front door colour to himself, but nothing works. It’s ridiculous — absolutely ridiculous — but he’s bloody terrified, and it’s all too soon that he’s pulling up on the edge of Niall’s road, reluctant to go any further. His fingers drum on the steering wheel, his stomach flipping stupidly, and in sudden need of some sort of reassurance, he panic calls Gemma.

“Hey, little bro,” she answers, refreshingly chilled. “Any particular reason you’re phoning me at eleven thirty in the evening? I’m two and a half episodes into a _Would I Lie To You_ catch-up binge.”

“Oh, uh, I’m actually in L.A., so. It’s only, like, three in the afternoon here. Sorry.”

He can feel her surprise. “L.A.? I thought you were staying in London until next month.”

“Uh...yeah...I — ”

“This is about Louis, isn’t it?”

He’s slightly offended by that. “Not everything I do is for Louis, Gem.”

“A picture of the two of you sucking face was in the papers like two days ago, and suddenly you’re in the same city as him against previous plans? I’d say that was a fair guess. Even if you didn’t do everything with Louis in mind. Which you totally do.”

Harry’s unamused. Once again, this is lost on the person on the other end of the phone. 

“So, if it’s _not_ for Louis, why are you in L.A.? And why are you calling?”

He pauses, before giving in. “Okay, so I’m here for Louis. But _not_ of my own accord.”

“You’re not? Why, then?”

Hesitating, he flicks the car light on and off, unwilling to say it all out loud. It’s Gemma, though, so of course he tells her. “Uh, Louis...Louis wants Modest! to try and cover us up. And I...I, well you know I don’t.”

“Oh, H,” she says, voice growing sympathetic. “Louis’ a bit of a twat then, isn’t he? What, he thinks everyone’s gonna magically forget the picture?”

Harry groans. “Exactly! I don’t know what he expects to happen. Modest! said something about making it look like a manip, I...I don’t know. I just…” he trails off.

“Yeah,” Gemma agrees, understanding anyway, which is why he loves her. “That sucks, Haz.”

“So now I’m sorta parked outside Niall’s house, where Louis is, putting off the moment where I have to try and convince him to change his mind.”

“Hm,” she hums, and he can see the exact expression of slight raised eyebrows and bitten lower lip she’s no doubt currently sporting in his mind’s eye. “Well, you know I’m going to say you just have to go and do it.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, tipping his head back against the rest. “I know.”

“Come on, Harry, it’s _Louis._ I get that he’s being an idiot at the moment — and trust me, when you guys work things out I’m gonna make sure he regrets this — but you’ve known the guy for years. He’s not scary all of a sudden just because he’s being a knob.”

“Yeah,” he knows she’s right, logically, but he still doesn’t want to have to face his problems like this. It might just be the time, though. “Thanks, Gemma. I should really go now, then…”

“Wait wait wait!” she interrupts his attempts to leave. “I gotta be a really cringey older sister for a second.”

He grins a little, despite himself. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, uh, you gotta know…whatever happens with you and Louis, I just…” she breaks off at the sound of him snorting. “Come on, Harry! I’m trying to be nice!”

“Okay, okay,” he laughs, apologetic. “Go on. I’ll be good.”

“I just...ugh you know I’m proud of you, you sod. Even if you are a horrific little brother.”

He bites his lip, smiling stupidly at his lap. “Love you too, Gem.”

“Yeah, yeah, now you can get out of here,” she grumbles, and they say their goodbyes, before Harry kicks the car into gear and drives the extra few metres to actually reach Niall’s house. Talking to Gemma made him feel a lot better about talking to Louis, and he’s actually almost tentatively looking forward to seeing Niall again as he gets out the car and walks up the long path to stand on Niall’s doorstep. It has, after all, been several months since he last saw him, and he’s always a right laugh, so. Harry rings the doorbell, almost smiling at the thought of getting to catch up with Niall again.

It isn’t Niall who answers the door. 

“Oh, hey,” Louis says, awkwardly rubbing the back of his head. It’s a little unfair that he looks so good, honestly. Aren’t people with young babies supposed to look sleep-deprived? 

“Hi,” Harry returns the greeting, clearing his throat when his voice comes out all crackly. 

“Been working the Rapunzel look, I see,” Louis observes, mouth curling into an amused smile at the length of Harry’s hair.

“Well, you know how much I love _Tangled_ ,” Harry answers, grinning instinctively, and for a moment it’s just like it always was, casual and wry and easy. But things are different now, and suddenly Niall’s at Louis’ shoulder, shouting and pulling Harry into a hug, and there’s this horrible moment where Harry pulls back and turns automatically to Louis, arms out like an idiot, who turns and moves down the hall without accepting it. Harry blinks and lets his arms fall down, feeling stupid. Right.

“It really is horrible decor you’ve got here, Nialler,” Louis calls, acting as though nothing had happened in true Tommo style. “Ennit, Harold? I was saying earlier the paint colour looks like day-old vomit.”

“Aw, fuck off, Lou,” Niall scoffs good-naturedly, shooting Harry a shrug before following Louis down the hall. “Like you know anything about interior design.”

“I’ll have you know I’m a regular _connoisseur_ at interior design, Niall,” Louis replies once they’re all in the kitchen, folding his arms. “Picked out the wallpaper for Poppy’s room and all.”

“Bullshit,” Niall rolls his eyes, getting down three mugs from a cupboard. “Like I’d believe your mum didn’t pick it out for you.” He turns to Harry. “You want tea or something?”

“Uh, yeah alright,” Harry agrees from where he’s hovering by the table, still feeling awkward from the almost-hug, and unused to this casual chat about Louis’ daughter. It really has been a while since he’s seen any of his bandmates. 

“You have such little _faith_ in me, Niall,” Louis continues loudly, pretending to be offended. 

“God, you are full of shit, Tommo,” Niall shakes his head fondly, filling the mugs right out of his fancy boiling water tap and putting the tea bags in the bin. “There you are, lads. Right, I’ll piss off then, shall I? Got big things to discuss.”

Tension creeps slowly into the room. “Yeah, cool,” Harry swallows. “Thanks, Niall.”

Niall claps him on the back and grins at Louis, either oblivious to the situation at hand or unwilling to acknowledge it, before leaving the two of them alone in the kitchen. 

The silence is immediate. 

“Huh,” Louis shakes his head after a few seconds, and laughs a little to himself. “God, this sure is an awkward subject, ennit?”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees weakly, sitting down at the table opposite him and wrapping his hands around the warm mug of tea. 

“So,” Louis clears his throat. “I think they should cover it up.”

Oh, right. They’re just — leaping into this, then. Cool. Okay. Harry can do this. 

“I...don’t,” he counters, and he’s already getting angry just from the thought of it. “I don’t see the point, honestly. It’s already out.”

“It doesn’t have to be, though,” Louis argues, frowning. “Didn’t Modest! tell you about how they can make it look like a manip?”

“Yeah, they told me that,” Harry rolls his eyes, unable to quite stop the venom that creeps into his voice. “Told me all about that and their plan to have me conveniently ‘seen’ with a whole bunch of models again, as though my reputation had somehow changed in the past few years.”

Louis’ eyes narrow. “Come on, Harry, don’t act like a victim here. It’s not like it was really a _struggle_ to be seen with all those beautiful women.”

Harry’s mouth falls open a little, he can’t believe Louis would say that. _“What?_ You know I didn’t want to — you know what? That isn’t even the point here. The point is I don’t want to spend another six years of my life pretending I’m not who I am!”

“It doesn’t have to be another six years — just for a little while,” Louis seems to make an effort to tone down the argument. “Look, Harry, this is important to me, and —”

 _“Important_ to you?” Harry scoffs, not having any of it. “What could possibly be important to you about denying our past relationship and making me pretend to be something I’m not?”

“It’s not _like_ that!” Louis snaps, finally looking pissed. “It’s for Poppy, okay? If we — If I come out right now there’s gonna be this huge _storm_ of publicity, and I can’t — not when — ”

“How is the public being interested that you’re suddenly bi any worse for a daughter than the public being interested that you’re a fucking _popstar?”_

“I don’t want to have to deal with all this shit while she’s still young, alright? There’s a lot going on and — ”

“Oh, so it’s not for Poppy, is it?” Harry snarls, and maybe he’s being cruel but he can’t believe Louis’ feeding him this bullshit excuse. “It’s for _you.”_

“Well — ” Louis looks frustrated. “Maybe I am being selfish, alright? But I’m a dad now, Harry! This is probably the last fucking selfish thing I can have until Poppy’s grown up and left home! I just want to be able to deal with a baby without all this shit going on in my life, alright?”

“Oh, alright,” Harry agrees, viciously. “So I’m just supposed to deny who I am for you, am I? You think I’ll do it just because it’s _you_ who's asking? Christ, Louis, I’d have thought you of all people would understand how much it _sucks_ to have to deny such a vital part of who you are to the public!” 

“Oh, that’s not fair, Harry,” Louis cries, throwing up his hands. “God, do you have to be so _petulant?_ You think you can batt your eyes and whine about how much it hurts you to be famous and that’ll change my mind?”

“Stop acting like you have the moral high ground here, Louis! You’re honestly asking me to keep pretending — keep lying every second of the day about who I am and what I like — even when I’ve come _this close_ to actually coming clean...actually thinking I could be honest for once in my fucking career...just so you can have a little peace of mind? Because honestly _fuck you._ This excuse is absolute bullshit and — and you know what? If you’re not goddamn mature enough to deal with a little public backlash after all we’ve been through then you’re not really mature enough to deal with a bloody _child,_ are you?”

It’s too far. Harry knows it the moment the words are out of his mouth, the moment he sees Louis’ face change, sees his expression falter before everything shutters closed. It’s clear Louis is done with this conversation.

“Screw you, Harry,” he says, words tight and furious. “Honestly, just fuck right off.”

And then he leaves, slamming the kitchen door so hard the plates on Niall’s ugly dresser rattle. 

Harry lets out a shaky exhalation of breath, feeling the promise of tears prickling behind his eyes, and lets his head fall into his hands. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ God, he knew Louis was self-conscious about being a father...he couldn’t have been more out of line if he’d tried. How had everything gone so wrong in such short a time? His tea isn’t even cold, and he’s already gone and fucked it all up.

“Harry?” It’s Niall — sweet, awkward Niall — poking his head back into the kitchen. “Mate, what the fuck’s going on? Did Louis just storm out of my house or what?”

Harry chokes on his laugh.”I...I kinda said something stupid, Niall.”

“Yeah, I gathered,” Niall comes in and sits opposite him, wide-eyed. “What was it? What happened to make you guys...I mean, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop or anything, but you guys seemed to be shouting pretty loudly by the end of it.”

Harry shrugs his shoulders. “Things...things just got out of control, I guess. I — _God._ I may have implied he’s not mature enough to be a father,” he admits, voice slow.

Niall’s expression hardens. _“Harry,”_ he warns, voice low and reproachful. “Why the hell would you go and do a stupid thing like that?”

Harry makes an odd, helpless gesture with his hands, and thinks _fuck it._ “I’m in love with him, Niall, aren’t I? And meanwhile he’s so fucking ashamed of our relationship he can’t even address it four years later.”

Niall stares at him, and lets out a huff of breath. “Christ, didn’t think you’d ever admit it,” he says, leaning forward and stealing a large gulp of Harry’s tea.

“Yeah, and a lot of good’s it’s done me now that I have,” Harry says bitterly. “Look, Niall, maybe I should just leave, yeah?” 

“Jesus, Harry, you don’t actually believe Lou’s ashamed of you, do you?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Right. ‘Cause he’s so desperate to deny it even when there’s _photographic evidence_ just because of how proud he is of our relationship. Yeah. That’s believable.”

“That’s not — c’mon, Haz, that’s not why Louis’ making this big deal. He’s...didn’t he explain it to you?”

“Oh, yeah, how _silly_ of me. He’s afraid of what the possible public backlash will do to his six month old baby who isn’t aware of the wider world. Hm. Convincing.”

“Stop being such a cunt, Harry, jeez,” Niall frowns at him. “I’m just saying.”

Harry feels the fight drain out of him. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I just — I just find it hard to believe.”

“Yeah, and I get that, but Louis’ not ashamed of you, alright? Don’t go around thinking stuff like that.”

“Alright,” Harry says, giving in despite the fact he still thinks Niall’s wrong. He’s suddenly exhausted. “Look, I really...I appreciate this, Niall, really, but…”

“You wanna abandon me too, huh?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just — ”

“Nah, I get it,” he pats Harry’s shoulder. “Just don’t go being a stranger again, okay? It’s been too long since you’ve been around.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it, just start doing stuff again, alright? Now, you off or what?”

Harry has to snort at that. Niall truly has a way with words. “Yeah, yeah, I’m going. Thanks, Niall.”

****

He gets another string of texts from Niall that evening:

 _mate now that we’re acknowledging ur disgusting ball of love for louis ive thought of an even better pun…_  
_are u ready 4 this_  
_ahem_  
_‘theres only one d for harry styles’_  
_right?? im a fuckin genius_

And in response to that, what can Harry do but laugh reluctantly and mutter, “damn, that’s a really good pun.”

****

Harry hadn’t really known how he felt when he was first told Louis was going to be a dad. It had been a shock, obviously — Louis was 23 and had just got out of a major relationship not too long ago — but something more than that had stuck with him, made him feel uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t quite pin down. At first, he’d thought maybe it was because, what with Zayn having left and all four members slowly moving away from your typical boybander age, one of them having a baby seemed to finally betoken the end of One Direction, but...well, people had been warning them of how soon everything could end from the very beginning. Simon had been very clear in telling them he doubted it would last more than a year and a half, and Harry could barely believe they’d managed to last five. So, he hadn’t really felt sad that it was probably over, just happy that they had had such a good run.

Which didn’t explain why he got this hollow feeling in his stomach any time someone brought up Briana or the baby, why he didn’t like to think about it and hated the idea that the whole public knew and readily discussed Louis Tomlinson’s accidental baby — couldn’t even fake a laugh when Liam started teasingly singing ‘Papa Don’t Preach’ at Louis. 

The reason for all this is pretty damn obvious when he looks back, but at the time he hadn’t understood it, hadn’t wanted to understand it. He and Louis had been broken up for three years and Harry had been so sure he’d been over it, that he had completely grasped the idea that he and Louis could never be together while they were a part of this band.

Yet, at night he found himself lying alone in his dark hotel room, and suddenly all he could think about was that Louis was just down the corridor, lying in his own room, probably making that cute huffy face he used to make when he was _really_ intent on going to sleep, and wouldn’t even realise he was frowning a little until Harry would reach forward and poke the lines on his forehead, smoothing them out so Louis would look all peaceful and sleepy when he whispered, _“stop watching me sleep, you weirdo.”_

Or maybe Louis didn’t do that anymore. Harry didn’t know. What he did know was that, right at that moment, all he wanted was to crawl out of bed and into the bright hallway, rubbing the sleep and the harsh light out of his eyes, and into the dark of Louis’ room and Louis’ bed, curling up into his warmth and humming in response to Louis’ sleepy little, “Haz?”

It had been a long time since Harry had let himself long for Louis like that, and it was as he tossed and turned that night that he admitted to himself that, although he’d come to terms with the idea that he and Louis couldn’t be a thing while the band existed, the idea that they couldn’t be together _ever_ was a whole other story.

And then there’d been the media storm, the seemingly endless public obsession with editing pictures of Harry to make it look like he was pregnant, jokes about Larry Stylinson and Harry being jealous, and it was all a little _too real_ to be funny. A little too real to be anything but salt in the wound and a way of making him feel like shit every time he saw a tabloid in a shop or caught the tail-end of a joke on the news. But, of course he’d had to smile through it, had to sit there and assure the interviewer “I’m having a great time,” seconds after Louis officially confirmed he was going to be a father, wondering if this was another coy reference to Larry for the sake of the fans or if you could genuinely see the discomfort on his face. 

Of course, it wasn’t like he was sad all the time, didn’t mean the end of the world, and he still got up on stage each night in front of a crowd of his fans and sang and danced and teased the clearly uncomfortable boyfriends and accompanying dads who stubbornly refused to join in with the hand clapping, but back down from a show-high in the cold light of reality, he maybe felt a little on edge, maybe found himself drawing away from the rest of the guys more than he should.

And now it’s not just that Louis’ going to be a dad with someone else — platonically or not — it’s that Harry has actual confirmation that they’re never going to be a thing again, that the idea must make Louis’ skin crawl if he’s this desperate to hide what they were. That they can’t even hold a conversation without yelling at each other.

The doorbell rings, startling Harry out of his funk, and he blinks at the clock on the kitchen wall that tells him it’s eight in the evening, and he is not expecting company. Abandoning the cheese toastie he was half way through constructing, he goes to answer the door without giving too much thought to possible people it could actually be, which means he’s completely taken aback by the sight of Louis standing in front of him, with —

“Aw, hello there!” Harry beams, bending down to stroke Poppy’s cheek with the back of his finger and completely forgetting how he and Louis’ last conversation had ended. “Hello, pretty girl.”

She gurgles and surveys him with interest, all big blue eyes and wispy blonde quiff. Gosh, she’s so much bigger than when he last saw her, when she was just a tiny thing, under a week old and burrowing into her dad’s arms. Harry suddenly, wildly remembers who her father is, and jumps back.

“Louis,” he says, as though he’d only just noticed him, which — well. He expects Louis to look pissed, but he almost looks...fond? Or maybe not, it’s gone in a second. “Louis, about what I — ”

"Did you mean it?" Louis asks abruptly. Harry splutters.

"What? No — Lou, of course I didn't mean it. I think you're going to be a great dad. I was just — " 

"Then forget it," Louis interrupts him. "We all act like tossers sometimes, I get that. Not...not that what you said was okay. I just..." he shakes his head furiously, and let's out a laugh. "You're a fucking idiot, Harry Styles."

The insult completely takes him by surprise. "What?" he asks, stupidly.

"You're a _fucking idiot,"_ Louis continues, "if you think for one _moment_ that I'm ashamed of having dated you. I mean — how much of a twat do you think I am? Christ, you really know how to hit a man in the ego."

Harry feels his face heat up, taken aback and suddenly shy at this admission. "O-oh," he stutters, still staring at Louis. "Right." 

"Can I come in, then? Or do you leave all your guests to stand out in the cold with their newborn babies?"

Harry notes that it's June and fairly warm, and is also pretty sure that at six and a half months old Poppy is no longer technically a newborn, but he steps aside nonetheless.

“You...you talked to Niall, then?” Harry asks, praying that Niall didn’t see fit to tell Louis anything else from their little conversation. 

“Yeah, and he informed me of how you pretty much willfully ignored everything I said yesterday and jumped to your own conclusions,” Louis drawls, sitting down at Harry’s kitchen table and bouncing Poppy on his knee. This entire situation is deeply surreal. 

“Well, excuse me if your reasons were so ridiculous I didn’t believe them,” Harry retorts, without thinking, and then mentally kicks himself. _Fuck, you idiot, things were just getting easier._

Louis raises an eyebrow. “I’m going to go ahead and postpone this argument until after you’ve made me tea.”

“Good call,” Harry agrees with relief, still mentally kicking himself as he goes and puts the kettle on. “I was just, uh, just making a cheese toastie actually. Would you like one?”

“Wow, you’re really pulling out all the stops, huh, Harold?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I knew you were coming, _Lewis,”_ he replies, getting out two mugs. It’s weird, that it’s so...not weird. That he and Louis can fall back into this rhythm almost effortlessly. “Do you want a toastie or not?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Louis says distractedly, too busy smiling as Poppy attempts to pick up a pencil lying on Harry’s table with her pudgy little hands. Harry can’t help but smile, too. 

“She’s adorable,” he tells Louis, gesturing at her. 

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, voice soft. “And she’s a little shit, too.”

Harry laughs, but it catches in his throat and he has to turn and busy himself with the tea. It’s just been a while since he’s seen Louis like this, is the thing, and it’s all kinds of unfair. Suddenly there’s a hot guy he’s emotionally attached to sitting at his kitchen table and smiling fondly at a baby, but Harry isn’t allowed to be emotionally attached to him, or the baby. Honestly this is like some sort of personal hell. Poppy must do something particularly cute, then, because Louis coos at her and all Harry can think is, _is God testing me?_

“Here’s your tea,” he says once he’s recovered from mentally banging his head against his kitchen cupboards in an attempt to get it together. Louis smiles at him.

“Cheers,” he says, taking it in one hand while the other steadies the baby in his lap. He opens his mouth to say something else, but his phone rings before he can. 

He glances at Harry, who gestures at him to go ahead, noting how his expression sours when he sees who’s calling.

“Yeah, Bri?” he answers, sounding tired. “No, I — yeah, I got her with me. Of course I brought the milk, I’m not a fucking idiot. I was — what?” he pauses, looking pissed as she says something on the other end. “What are you on about? I thought I was doing you a favour — you were in the shower and I had to do something so I thought it’d be better if I took....what? Look, it doesn’t matter if it’s just bloody _once_ — that’s not...” he sighs, mouth tightening. “Yeah, alright, I’ll bring her back. Yeah. Bye.”

He puts the phone down, running a hand across his face, and despite what he’d thought the previous day Harry thinks now that he looks exhausted. 

“Sorry, Harry,” he says, mouth still a tight line. “I gotta take Poppy back so we don’t mess up her sleep schedule, or something.”

“You alright?” Harry asks, because he’d have to be an idiot not to see how Louis isn’t. 

Louis shrugs. “It’s just...it’s just hard, you know? I never leave the house, I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in _months,_ and I love Poppy to bits but sometimes I just can’t stand the sound of her crying. And — ” he breaks off, looking guilty.

“What?” Harry presses, curious despite himself. 

“It’s just...it’s just Briana. Like, I love her, obviously. We’re friends. But sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be easier doing this with someone I was _in_ love with. And I know that’s bad, because I’m the one who got her into this situation, but it’s just really tense all the time, and — and…” he smiles, slowly, shaking his head. “And I’m whinging, aren’t I? Sorry, Harry, I’ll get out of your hair.”

“That’s why you don’t want to have to deal with everything else, isn’t it?” Harry asks, understanding now why Louis might want a little breathing space. 

Louis shrugs. “Well it sure as hell isn’t because of you, knobhead.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but is unable to stop the smile that finds its way onto his lips. It’s just...it’s just really good to hear that Louis isn’t actually ashamed of him, after all. 

“Anyway, thanks for the tea, Harry,” Louis continues. “Not that I drank any, but you know. I meant this to be a longer visit where we actually discuss stuff, but. Another time, I guess.”

“Right, yeah, bye,” Harry says, suddenly slightly distracted. Louis doesn’t want to come out right now because of the baby stress. For the first time, this is something he can work around. 

He sees Louis and Poppy out of his house with a slight frown wrinkling his forehead, thinking about his options, but by the time he’s shut the door on them and is alone again in his house, it’s morphed into the beginnings of a smile.

Harry has a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want, you can find me on [tumblr](http://thatsbyronic.tumblr.com/).


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning that -- despite what my recent search history might suggest -- I don't actually have a baby, nor do I know really anything about them. SO forgive me if anything in this chapter is an unrealistic portrayal of an infant child....I tried...
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Louis wakes up reluctantly, as always, turning over and shoving his face further into the pillow in the hopes that his body will get the gist and go back to being unconscious, feeling the heavy weight of sleep-sand encrusted eyes and lax limbs unhappy about being awake. He lets out a groan of protest, despite the fact that there’s no one to hear and pity him, and rolls over onto his back, arm over his eyes, once he realises that sleep isn’t going to happen again now. He breathes in petulantly, and — huh.

That’s the unmistakable smell of a fry-up: greasy and meaty, with the prevalent scent of cooking mushrooms as an undercurrent, maybe a few fried tomatoes in there. He removes the arm from over his eyes and stares up at his ceiling, thinking. Normally in the mornings he and Briana are too knackered to do anything more than knock back several cups of coffee, and maybe one of them will bite the bullet and haphazardly make toast — he hadn’t even known Bri _could_ make an English Breakfast — but if she’s feeling particularly proactive this morning and decided to cook, Louis is very much definitely not complaining.

In fact, it is exactly what he needs to convince him to drag his arse out of bed, hefting the tracksuit bottoms that keep trying to go south for the summer back over his hips and rubbing at his eyes, following the scent of bacon without much awareness of putting one foot in front of the other.

The first thing he sees upon entering the kitchen, through the eye he’s not currently rubbing the sleep out of, is Briana sitting in her ridiculously large menswear pyjamas at the table, feeding Poppy and nodding sleepily along to something, which is not altogether weird. Then he removes the hand from his eye, and takes in the sight of Harry Styles standing in front of his cooker, gesticulating wildly with one hand as he tells some rambling story, the other prodding a fried egg with a spatula. Which _is_ weird.

Louis almost asks, _‘what year is it?’_ like an idiot, but Harry’s stupidly long hair and the baby currently suckling from the girl sitting at his table are all clear markers that it is indeed still 2016 and not somehow 2011. None of those things, however, explain why Harry is making the two of them breakfast.

“Um,” Louis says, alerting the other two adults in the room to his presence. “Morning, Harold?”

****“Morning, Louis,” Harry greets him cheerfully. “Great timing! The kettle’s just boiled. I take it you want tea, right?”

“Right,” Louis agrees faintly, turning to Briana for answers, who just shrugs at him.

“Harry wanted to make breakfast,” she explains, like that explains anything at all.

“Right,” Louis says again. “Okay. Um, why?”

Harry looks pleased at the question, grinning at him. “You’re stressed about the baby, right? Well, I figured I’d do what I could to ease things over, right? And then you’d be less stressed.” He frowns, suddenly, and turns to Briana. “Assuming that’s okay with you…?"

“If you’re going to make me breakfast every morning, by all means,” she agrees. “Hell, you can stay in one of Louis’ guest rooms for all I care.”

“Oi, how come I don’t get consulted about this?” Louis complains, frowning at her, and then at Harry. “It’s my house, surely you ask _me?”_

“Yeah, alright Lou,” Harry rolls his eyes. “Maybe when you’ve pushed a baby through your vagina.”

Briana smirks at him as he splutters.

“Oh, you’re on thin ice, Styles,” he warns, folding his arms. _“Thin. Ic—_ are those fried potatoes?”

“Yup,” Harry smirks.

Somehow, Louis doesn’t really have anything to complain about, after that. (It’s sort of unfair how good the breakfast is.)

*******

“So,” Louis tries again when he’s considerably fuller and actually dressed. Bri’s in the shower, so it’s not like he’ll have anyone ganging up on him again. “You want to...make me less stressed?”

“Yeah,” Harry shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Like he’s not currently got his sleeves rolled up and is wiping down Louis’ kitchen counter. “You know I want to come out, Louis. I figure the best way to do that is make you feel like you’ll be able to deal with all the publicity. So, if I help you and Briana out a little, logically you’ll be in a calmer place, and a few paparazzi won’t tip you over the edge.”

“So essentially what you’re saying,” Louis summarises, tapping his chin. “Is that you have entirely selfish reasons for doing this, and I can exhort you into doing all my housework guilt-free.”

Harry has his back to him, but Louis can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Yeah, essentially.”

Hm. It’s not like it won’t be a weird arrangement, or anything, but they’ve already had Liam, and Briana’s friend Katy helping them out lots — and they had to send their mums back to their respective homes, feeling too guilty about making them do all the work — so having Harry around to help won’t be too much of a change. Plus, as they’ve just established, this time Louis won’t have to feel guilty, as Harry’s pretty much just admitted to doing it all just to butter him up. And it’s not like Louis doesn’t need the help, doesn’t feel like he’s drowning with the weight of a whole life relying on him, the force of a million eyes staring and discussing his sexuality.

“Okay, then,” he agrees. “Do you, like, actually want to stay in one of the guest rooms, or…?”

At that, Harry actually turns to look at him, and he seems slightly nervous. “I mean, if that’s not too weird? It just, like, makes more sense, right? If I’m to be spending loads of time here.”

It is kinda weird, objectively, to have your ex as some sort of live-in nanny, but things have never been _that_ strange between him and Harry after they broke up in 2012 — Louis knows neither of them feel that way anymore, and so he can’t really think of any real reason why Harry shouldn’t just stay in one of the guest rooms.

Of course, this isn’t counting the past few days of intense awkward. Seeing him and Harry kissing on the cover of every paper was a bit of an unpleasant throwback — not that he’s ashamed or anything, God, Harry really is a fucking idiot — but he hadn’t really let himself think about the two of them, like that, for the past few years, until suddenly it was literally laid out in front of his face and he was getting angry calls from Modest!. Then, obviously, things had been weird. Louis hadn’t been sure how to deal with then seeing Harry again, had felt kinda odd about it, and there had been that horrific moment when Harry had gone in for a hug and Louis had panicked and just turned and walked away. Not his finest moment, but then Harry had gone and been a first class wanker to him, so Louis figures they’re even. Anyway, they’re past that now, if last night’s semi-bonding session coupled with this morning’s breakfast are anything to go by, so Louis really sees no problem with it.

“Go nuts,” he shrugs. It’s a good thing he bought a big house, what with them having decided Briana would stay with him while Poppy’s little, their constantly visiting families, and now Harry. “I’m not making up the bed for you though.”

Harry looks relieved, but still manages to roll his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?"

“Oi, mate, you’re the one begging me to let you do all the housework. I take it you’ll be changing all of Poppy’s nappies, too?” Since Briana’s still mostly breastfeeding her, changing nappies isn’t actually that unpleasant, but Harry wrinkles his nose nonetheless.

“Um, maybe we’ll work up to that,” he says eventually. Louis cackles.

*******

He really has to hand it to Harry, after that. The guy’s dedicated, and by the end of the day Louis’ pretty sure his house is cleaner than it was even when he first bought it.

“I like this one,” Briana tells him that evening, slumped on the sofa under a blanket with Poppy asleep on her chest and reruns of _Malcolm in the Middle_ playing on TV. “Liam never vacuumed the house.”

Louis rolls his eyes. _“Liam_ isn’t trying to convince me to come out.”

Harry, who is sitting next to Briana on the sofa, pouts. “Honestly, Lou, you don’t appreciate me nearly enough. I’ll have you know I slaved to hoover this place — your cupboard room was a right tip.”

“You cleaned the cupboard room?” Louis repeats, incredulous. “Jesus, Harry, have you sat down at all today?” Last he checked, his cupboard room could’ve featured on an episode of _The Hoarder Next Door._

Harry shrugs, looking pleased. “I was thinking tomorrow I’d get started on baby-proofing the place; she could start crawling soon, and you don’t wanna be taken unawares.”

Louis and Briana exchange a look, which roughly translates to _‘I could get used to this’,_ but Louis can’t help but feel a little guilty.

“I’ll help you, then. Christ, I don’t think we’ve even bought any of the crap you need to baby proof a house.”

He hadn’t really thought about it, to be honest, which probably isn’t a good sign. God, what kind of parent doesn’t even think about baby-proofing their house? It’s not like Poppy isn’t fragile, isn’t vulnerable and practically close to death at any moment. Harry must see the slight frown on his face, because he quickly says,

“Oh, well I’m sure the last few months have been a bit hectic.”

Louis shakes the thoughts from his head and grins at him. The poor sod’s probably still beating himself up about the maturity thing. “Good thing we’ve now got you to slave away while we recover, then.”

Briana nods. “I’d drink to that. Your mac ‘n’ cheese was a damn sight better than Louis’.”

“Honestly,” Louis makes a show of crossing his arms. “A man spends months working tirelessly in front of a stove, and this is the thanks he gets? It damn near breaks your heart.”

“Hm, should’ve thought of that before you went and broke the condom,” Briana retorts, prompting Harry to snort with surprise. Louis is sort of regretting having the two of them living in the same house.

Before he can think of a reply, Poppy decides to come back into consciousness and begin to cry, and Briana gets up to go and change her while Harry looks on, distressed.

“You’re gonna have to get used to her doing that, if you’re sticking around,” Louis warns him, amused.

Harry turns his attention back to him. “She just sounds so sad,” he says, sounding off-put.

“She’s a _baby,_ Harold. She’s sad at everything. Then, minutes later, you’ll burp and it’ll be the funniest thing she’s ever seen. Or the scariest. To be honest, it’s a little emotionally draining.”

Harry seems a little placated at that, but three o’clock in the morning still finds him standing anxiously in the doorway of Briana’s room, staring at Louis with wide eyes and stupidly messed up hair.

“Why is she still crying?” he asks in a voice rough from sleep, watching as Louis sways with Poppy pressed to his chest, humming _God Only Knows_ by The Beach Boys. “I thought you said her nappy was clean.”

Louis sometimes forgets that despite Harry’s obvious and ridiculous love for children, he’s the youngest and has never actually experienced living with a baby.

“She’s crying because she’s crying, Harry,” he says, distracted by Poppy’s screams grating at his psyche. _“Hush now, bubba.”_

“Ugh,” Briana groans, from where she’s face down on the mattress. “Please, Lou, just take her into your room. I’m fucking exhausted.”

Louis’ pretty damn tired himself, but he takes pity on her and does so, shutting the door to her room behind him. Poppy’s still crying, but he thinks she’s tiring herself out as every now and then there’ll be a little lull, and she usually responds pretty well to the swaying-and-singing. (Sometimes the whole popstar thing really comes in handy.) She’s been getting better at sleeping at night, too, so Louis’s hopeful. Fuck, he really wants to sleep all night for once.

“Hey,” he murmurs to Poppy, lifting her up now so her pink, screwed up face is in line with his. “Hey, now. You wanna go to sleep? Huh? C’mon, love, why don’t you go back to sleep. _God only knows what I’d be without you,”_ he sings at her, pulling her back to his chest and continuing to sway, this time with his eyes closed. He does know, is the thing. He’d be fucking _asleep._

The thought makes him feel a little guilty, though, so he bends down and presses a kiss to his daughter’s head, feeling that warm fuzzy feeling he gets whenever he thinks of her as _his daughter._ She stops crying at that, letting out one last sleepy bleat, but isn’t asleep yet. Louis notices Harry looking at him weirdly, so he offers him an awkward smile.

“Little bugger, isn’t she?” he says quietly, still swaying on the spot.

“Yeah,” Harry says quietly, and if his voice sounds weird Louis puts it down to sleep-deprivation. “She’s...do you think I could hold her?”

Louis looks down at her, her eyes droopy and mouth lax, and figures why not. “Yeah, I guess, as long as you’re careful.”

Harry swallows, looking pleased, and steps forward to gently take her in his arms. The moment she’s away from Louis, though, she starts bawling again, the sound piercing the momentary quiet. Louis thinks he can hear Briana groaning from down the hall. She’s been getting better at not crying when held by others, but looks like tonight she’s just not feeling up to it.

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Lou!” Harry cries, desperately trying to lull her again by rocking his arms, and he looks so fucking distraught that Louis can’t help but laugh at him.

“Don’t worry about it,” he snorts, shaking his head. “I figured she’d do that, anyway. Here, sweetie, wanna come back to your favourite person?”

Harry looks sort of sad, though, when he hands Poppy back and she curls up into Louis’ arms, falling silent.

“Quit beating yourself up about it,” Louis rolls his eyes, beginning to walk back down to his room. They keep a cot there, too, so neither he nor Briana has to do all the middle of the night waking. “She’d have cried if I’d handed her to pretty much anyone but Bri.” Except maybe Liam, but he figures Harry wouldn’t appreciate that.

“Right,” Harry says, but he still seems a little disappointed. Guy probably expected all babies to adore him back immediately.

“I’m sure she’ll come around,” Louis assures him, around a yawn. He looks down at Poppy, who’s finally dropped off to sleep, and smiles at her. “Ey, looks like we’re finally out for the count. I’ll see you in the morning then, Harry.”

“Right,” Harry says again. “Night, Lou.”

*******

Louis wakes up before Harry and Briana that morning, thanks to Poppy sleeping in his room. There’s exhaustion throbbing behind his eyes, and it feels like a huge weight is on the top of his head, buckling his knees and repeating _sleep_ — especially with the rest of the household still blissfully unconscious — but once he’s warmed up some milk to the perfect temperature and given it to Poppy Harry’s emerged from the guest room, yawning wildly. He’d gone back to his own house for a bit to pick up some stuff the previous afternoon, which is why the pyjama trousers he’s currently sporting actually fit him — not that Louis believes for a moment he’s actually worn them before last night. If he remembers correctly, there’s nothing Harry hated more than wearing clothes in bed.

“Do you want me to make breakfast, then?” Harry mumbles, rubbing his eyes. His voice is always a deep rumble first thing in the morning, barely there at all, and even though they’ve been on tour together for years it feels sort of weird for Louis to hear, a stark reminder of when they used to sleep in the same bed, when they’d wake each other up with much more than just a greeting.

Louis coughs to clear his mind of all the confusing thoughts in his head. “Yeah, that’d be great,” he agrees, watching as Harry goes and rummages around in his fridge for stuff to make. It doesn’t take him very long to remember he’d brought his own ingredients the previous day, because neither Louis nor Briana are energetic or self-aware enough to actually go food shopping, and there is absolutely zero proper food in the fridge.

He shuts it, turning to shoot Louis an unimpressed look. “You have a child, Lou.”

Louis shrugs, stifling a yawn. “Yeah? And that child has a mother who produces food for her, and gross mush to eat on the side. I’ll buy actual things when Poppy’s old enough to appreciate them. Today is not that day.”

Harry crosses his arms, still less-than-pleased. “And where exactly is Briana gonna get the nutrients to put into the breast milk if the two of you only eat Heinz beans and cereal?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “From the perfectly healthy microwaved meals I buy?”

_“Perfectly healthy?”_ Harry repeats, looking scandalised. “Do you even know what’s — surely you’ve — ”

Louis watches, amused, as he struggles to comprehend that level of truly not caring what you eat, before giving up and angrily opening every one of Louis’ cupboards. Eventually, he finds what he needs.

“Right,” he snaps, getting down a big bowl from the top shelf. “I am going to make the three of us pancakes because that’s pretty much all I can do, and _then_ me and you are going to go shopping.”

Louis frowns. “What — in public? Harry, you know I — ”

“Fine,” he agrees, aggressively cracking eggs into the bowl. _“I’ll_ go shopping. Probably for the best, anyway, I bet you’d throw random crap into the trolley.”

“Probably would,” Louis acknowledges, grinning to himself at the thought. “Hey, while you’re out you should buy some more poptarts.”

“Should — ! I am _not_ buying you poptarts! It’s bad enough that until I came here you guys were apparently living off Lucky Charms — I’m not enabling the two of you any further by buying more products that are 98% sugar.”

“Good luck avoiding that in this country,” Louis tells him, deeply entertained. “God bless America!”

Harry groans.

*******

So, Day 2 of Harry staying with them has Louis’ house not only squeaky clean but full to the brim of actual food. Like, not ready-made. It’s baffling.

Then, they get started on baby-proofing Louis’ house, using a massive checklist he got off the internet and emailed to Harry so he knew what to buy while he was out. It’s a hell of a lot more of a daunting process than Louis had anticipated.

“Okay,” Harry says, frowning at the pdf he has open on his phone. “Why don’t we start by putting the non-stick bath mats in the baths? I bet you’ll forget if we don’t do it now, and you don’t want Poppy to slip and drown. Even though you’ll never be leaving her alone in the bath.”

He shoots Louis a dark look, as though he had suggested doing so.

“Uh, yeah, alright,” Louis agrees, inspecting the mats Harry’s bought. There are three baths in Louis’ house, hence three mats, and although two of them are fairly standard and respectable, one is positively garish and covered in tiny, ludicrously coloured ducks. “Did you have to buy the one with Donald and his poor fashion choices on it, though?”

Harry frowns at him. “Louis, that isn’t Donald Duck. That is just an average, nameless duck.”

“So what? He’s a duck. What if he wants a name?”

“Well, it can’t be Donald, can it? There’s already a Donald Duck.”

Louis pretends to be offended. “What? So just because some dickhead’s already claimed the name, our duck can’t be called Donald? Why can’t there be two Donalds?”

“For the same reason there can’t be two Beyoncés! It’s confusing, and there’s already one.”

“I think you’re being unfair to our duck,” Louis sniffs. Harry shoots him A Look.

“Who says he wants to be called Donald, anyway? Maybe he wants to be called Harry. It is, after all, a great name.”

Louis whirls on him. “AHA! So there can be two Harrys, but there can’t be two Donalds?”

The look on Harry’s face shows he realises he’s fucked up. “Uh…”

“It’s settled!” Louis sings, triumphant. “The duck’s called Donald!”

“No! No!” Harry scrambles to defend himself. “Cause I’m Harry Styles, right? If everyone referred to the duck as Harry the Duck, it wouldn’t be confusing. Just like Simon Cowell, and the guy from Simon and Garfunkel. Context, isn’t it?”

“But the guy from Simon and Garfunkel isn’t actually _called_ Simon,” Louis protests. “It’s his surname, so — ”

_“For fuck’s sake!”_ Briana shouts from the other room. _“Just name the duck Dylan and move on with it!”_

There’s a small silence, before Harry and Louis start laughing.

“Alright,” Louis says eventually, still grinning slightly. “You can take Dylan the Duck and put him in the top bathroom, I’ll take the others and put them in Bri and I’s ensuites.” (There’s no way he’s putting his naked bum on the image of a duck he just had this enthusiastic a discussion about naming.)

Harry agrees, and they go their respective ways to restrict the danger of various bathtubs.

The next item on the list is an oven door guard to prevent Poppy from burning herself if she leans against the hot glass, which Louis argues is entirely redundant as he has very little intention of ever using his oven, but Harry insists he uses anyway.

“But what if you _do_ cook? What if your mum comes round and you have to cook for her? Come _on,_ Lou, you shouldn’t risk it. Besides, you’re bloody loaded; it’s not exactly gonna break the bank if you get an oven door guard.”

Louis is beginning to regret having sent Harry that pdf, but the man has a point about the money so he concedes, and then after that they have to put on a stove guard in case Poppy reaches up and grabs a hot frying pan or something. Louis never realised his house was this freaking dangerous.

Then they have to trawl through the entire house looking for empty plug sockets, and put in these dumb fake plugs with no wire coming out of them so Poppy can’t electrocute herself by putting her fingers in the holes, and after that Harry’s pulling out the childproof locks and they’re essentially revamping his kitchen so you need to crack the bloody da vinci code just to make a sandwich. (Although he keeps this opinion to himself after he starts to complain and Briana says he’s an idiot who can’t navigate a child-proof lock.)

Then they’re rearranging his living room so no tall lamps are ready to fall on her or wires ready to be gnawed on, putting ridiculous contraptions on the particularly heavy doors so they don’t fall shut and crush her fingers, and a lock on the toilet seat so she doesn’t — Louis doesn’t even really know, fall in? — so that at this point he’s pretty exhausted, both physically and emotionally.

“Surely that’s it, now?” Louis complains, collapsing into a chair at the kitchen table. “I feel like I’ve imagined every single way my daughter could possibly die. I’m done. Tell me we’re done.”

“Not yet,” Harry says, apologetically, reaching into the remaining shopping bag, and pulling out some...gates?

“Harry Styles,” Louis says, unamused. “My child is not a _goat.”_

Harry rolls his eyes. “They’re for the stairs, drama queen.”

“The stairs?” Louis repeats, confused.

“She could fall down them, Louis. Hence the gate.”

Louis groans. It still feels like he’s getting ready to live with a barnyard animal, but of course he gives in at the thought of Poppy falling down the stairs and breaking her neck, meaning he and Harry then spend far too long trying to work out how to put in several gates at the top and bottom of every set of stairs in his house, which involves drilling tiny holes in the walls and then fiddling about with tiny screws and screwdrivers, and the whole thing is harder than it really should be.

“You’re not honestly telling me the pair of you have never put up a shelf or something?” Briana asks, one eyebrow raised as she stands over them, judging.

“Didn’t really come up while we were doing a world tour,” Louis snaps, grunting as he tries to get the screw to go in.

“It’s righty-tighty,” Harry reminds him, unhelpfully. The prat.

“I _know_ it’s fucking — ” oh. He quickly rectifies the direction he was turning the screwdriver, ignoring Briana’s cackling.

“You know I could just do it, right?” she tells them, and the look on Harry’s face suggests he’s actually fucking _considering it._

“Absolutely not,” Louis says quickly. There’s no way she’d let them live this down. “I’m gonna install this bloody gate if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Which it just might be, if you don’t look where you’re waving that screwdriver,” Harry warns him. Louis gives him the finger.

“Oh, _excuse me_ for offending your fragile male sensibilities,” Bri rolls her eyes. “God forbid the girl does the DIY.”

“We’re members of a boyband and have both sucked at least one dick,” Harry reminds her. “If we had any fragile male sensibilities, they’re long gone.”

“Aha!” Louis crows with pride as the last screw goes in. “There! Told you I could do it, Bri.”

She snorts. “My ovaries are swooning.”

“Good to hear it,” he nods approvingly, and turns to high-five Harry. “I’d call that a job well done.”

“Can we fix it? Yes we can!” Harry beams.

“Wow,” Briana drawls. “You’ll be building me and Poppy a house next. Next stop, _Little House on the Prairie.”_

Louis gives her the finger, too, and then the two of them go and plop down in front of the TV, while Harry gets to work on supper. He’d feel guilty if he weren’t slightly annoyed that Harry made him install six different gates for a baby that can’t crawl yet.

Plus, he has to admit, Harry’s homemade cooking is a damn sight better than what they normally eat. And, he feels healthier just from clearing his plate, especially with the running commentary Harry keeps up, having googled _what to eat when you’re breastfeeding._

“So, salmon has loads of omega-3 fatty acids in it, right?” he tells Briana as he sets the plates down in front of them. “And apparently that stuff’s like, gold for Poppy’s brain development. And you’re supposed to eat loads of starchy foods, so I thought I’d throw in the ciabatta. I mean, I could’ve just used normal bread. But. I like ciabatta,” he shrugs. “And you’ve got to eat loads of greens, so the salad and tomatoes — did you know tomatoes have, like, loads of nutrients and antioxidants in them? Some website online called them something like a super food. No, a ‘functional food’. No idea what that means but it sure sounds good. Anyway, then I found this recipe for pesto, so I thought, like, why not.”

Briana’s eyebrows are practically in her hairline. “Damn,” she says eventually. “Can we keep you?”

Harry looks intensely pleased at that. Louis rolls his eyes and tells him to eat the damn meal. It’s actually pretty incredible what a difference a home-cooked meal can make — just taking out the salted, ready-made meals from his routine makes the day feel a lot less choking, a lot healthier.

*******

Briana goes out after supper to hang with some of her friends, and Harry and Louis find themselves in front of the telly, drinking tea and lazily watching _The Goonies,_ Louis having bathed Poppy and put her to bed around what they’re trying to establish as her normal bedtime. The two of them are sitting on either side of the sofa, legs kicked down the middle and under a blanket, and it’s sort of....weirdly domestic. They’ve spent the day doing exhausting DIY and imagining increasingly unlikely and grotesque ways for Poppy to die, and now they’re curled up together on the sofa. Louis keeps reminding himself they used to date, used to be in love, sort of waiting for his mind to jolt and go, “Oh, this is weird. This is awkward.” But it...isn’t.

In fact Louis realises that he’s actually sort of missed this. After all, there was a time when Harry was fast on track to becoming his best friend, before he realised it was actually more than that, and there’s a reason they were able to date so successfully, if one discounts the problems caused by fame and management. Yet, after they broke up they’d just sort of stopped hanging out, stopped doing things solely the two of them because it had been _weird,_ it had been awkward and painful — Louis is pretty sure this is the longest they’ve spent together without one of the boys since early 2012. Which is — sort of awful, really. Louis likes Harry. Louis maybe kinda missed Harry.

But then, Louis remembers what it was like when he and Harry first broke up — having to pretend like he didn’t still feel the same way about him, acting like Harry was nothing more than a friend, than a bandmate, especially when he knew Harry liked him that way too. It felt like a waste of epic proportions, the universe giving them something as great as that and them just throwing it away to make embarrassing pop music. It was probably worth it, Louis thinks with hindsight, to have done all this in such a short amount of time, but back when it was fresh and when their hands would brush and they’d have to flinch away from the zing of attraction, Louis had barely been able to rationalise why anyone would want to throw away a chance to be with Harry. He remembers sometimes when their eyes would meet for too long, or one of them would laugh too hard at the other’s joke, and then they’d realise and have to clear their throats, ignoring the sudden awkward. Remembers once, not too long after they’d broken up, when they’d slipped up and found themselves in Harry’s hotel room, mouths pressed together and quick breaths drowning out the _“we can’t”,_ fists clenched in clothing and hot, momentary denial.

Harry shifts, bringing up a hand to rub at his nose, and Louis realises with a flush of awkwardness what a weird trip down memory lane this is to have right next to the person you’re thinking about. Any deeper down that rabbit hole and he’ll find himself staring at Harry’s lips and thinking unnecessary and unwanted _thoughts._

“I still can’t fucking believe that guy grew up to be Sam,” Harry comments, wholly oblivious.

Louis frowns, still slightly preoccupied. “What?”

“The main kid,” Harry points. “He’s Sam in _Lord of the Rings.”_

All uncomfortably cloying memories of pressing Harry up against a hotel wall vanish in the face of such a revelation. _“What?”_ he repeats, gaping at the TV. “Holy shit,” he breathes. “Holy shit, I can see it. How the fuck did I not know this? What the hell.”

“I know, right,” Harry takes a sip of some tea. “It’s weird.”

Of course at that Louis has to whip out his phone and text Stan this most urgent news, and then the two of them exchange various exclamations for a while until Stan has to go do boring adult things. (Louis ignores the fact that he has a child and as thus could be classified as someone who does boring adult things. He will always be five years old at heart, as a matter of pride.)

“Is it working, then?” Harry asks, out of the blue.

Louis looks at him. “Is what working?”

He looks at his hands. “This. You know. My...helping out. Are things less stressed?”

Louis thinks about it. Harry only showed up yesterday, but — yeah. Louis hasn’t had to watch washing up build on the kitchen counters or eat over-microwaved food that’s somehow still cold in the middle, hasn’t found himself snapping at Briana for every little thing she does. He’s still bone-tired from Poppy waking up in the night, but he does feel better. Most babies are able to sleep through the night soon anyway, so it does seem like things will pick up. Huh.

Harry looks up from his hands, looking slightly nervous at Louis’ long pause, and Louis shakes himself out of it and shrugs.

“Yeah, I guess,” he says, but then that’s not enough. “I mean — yeah. Yeah, Harry. It’s working.”

It feels like he’s saying something big, which is dumb, because it makes sense that someone doing 90% of the housework would make dealing with a six month old baby less stressful. Still, Louis finds himself relieved that all Harry does at the news is nod and smile a little.

“Good,” he says, lightly. “You gonna change the channel, or what?”

Louis notices with a start that the film’s ended. “Right, yeah.”

*******

Last night was sort of weird, but the next morning whilst inhaling Harry’s scrambled eggs Louis decides it was just him being tired, and so long as he doesn’t start taking any further sojourns down memory lane he should be fine. He focuses instead on the fact that Briana’s hungover, which brings him much personal amusement.

“Morning sunshine,” he crows when she appears from her room, wrapped in her duvet, hair a mess and with proper panda eyes of smudged eye makeup. “You’re looking beautiful this morning.”

Briana shoots him an unamused look, slipping into the chair opposite him and tentatively rubbing her temples. “Fuck off, Louis,” she croaks.

“Briana always looks beautiful,” Harry says, winking at her as he sets down a mug of coffee in front of her and joins them at the table.

“Ugh,” she groans, wrinkling her nose at the coffee. “Doesn’t fucking feel like it.”

“Poppy truly has a role-model in you,” Louis says, putting his head in his hands and pretending to gaze at her lovingly.

“Quit being a douche, Lou, I feel like shit.”

“Aw, bub. Take too many body shots last night?”

“Maybe,” Briana sniffs. “Can someone get me a paracetamol, please?”

“What’d your last slave die of?” Louis demands, but he does actually get her one because he feels sort of bad how Harry does everything round here, and also she looks like shit and he kind of knocked her up that one time.

Things, after that, feel normal. Things, objectively, _are_ normal. But the fact remains that Louis sort of fell down the rabbit hole last night, remembering what it had been like to kiss Harry, and suddenly he keeps, like, noticing stuff about him.

Like the way his shirt rides up and a little slither of skin is revealed when he reaches up to get one of the bowls from Louis’ highest kitchen cupboard. The way his biceps strain when he stretches. The feeling of his knuckles brushing Louis’ arm when he has to squeeze past him.

It’s unsettling.

Harry is oblivious, of course, continues to do whatever it is he does most of the day, sitting in Louis’ guest room and fiddling around with song ideas, coming out at odd times and offering everyone tea, but when he raises his hand to scratch the back of his neck, Louis just wants to press his mouth to the soft skin of his upper arm, to leave marks. When Harry’s sprawled on the floor of the sitting room, back to the edge of the sofa and eyebrows scrunched into a frown at the TV, Louis has the urge to crawl onto his lap and bite at his neck, wants to graze the soft chub of his hips with his fingers, hands darting under Harry’s shirt to trace at skin scrawled in tattoos. Sometimes he’ll come back from lunch with Jeff or another of his fancy friends and be all flushed and smiley and Louis’ll just want to pin him to the wall, slot his thigh in between Harry’s and lose it a little bit.

It’s — okay, it’s a little weird, and Louis sort of feels like a right perv when he finds himself eyeing Harry’s arse appreciatively when he’s bent over, cooing at Poppy in her high chair. _(Boundaries,_ _God.)_ But...well, it doesn’t have to mean anything crazy. It’s no secret that Harry’s an attractive guy; about a billion teenage girls across the world and their internet blogs are a testament to _that_ — and it’s also no secret that _Louis_ finds Harry attractive. They did, after all, date for some time. Plus, Louis hasn’t actually got laid in what can only be classified as _too damn long._

Thus, it’s perfectly reasonable that Louis might catch himself looking a little too long — after all, he’s only human. It doesn’t mean anything.

***

“So I was reading up on stuff to do with your six month baby, right?” Harry is saying, several days later. Louis was 100% not spaced out, staring at his mouth, that’s for sure.

“Of course you were,” Louis rolls his eyes, recovering fast. “Find anything?”

“Yeah! There’s, like, a bunch of games you can play with them that helps development and stuff. I thought we could try some out.”

Louis shakes his head, unable to suppress a smile. “Honestly, Harry, you’re worse than my mum. Alright, then, what sort of games?”

“Well,” Harry looks sort of sheepish. “Okay, they’re all kind of stupid. But the website said they were, you know, good for entertaining her and making sure she develops right, you know? So.”

Louis stares at him. “And these games are…?”

Which is how he finds himself in his sitting room — curtains decidedly _closed_ — with various primary school disco hits blaring, doubled over in hysterical laughter as Harry tries more and more ridiculous dance moves to make Poppy laugh.

“Wait, wait,” he wheezes, holding up a finger. “I wanna change the song.”

Harry stops his jazz hands, frowning at him. “Change the song? Louis. _Ain’t no party like an S Club Party.”_

Louis snorts. “Yeah, alright, I admit, _Reach For The Stars_ is a classic. No one is denying. BUT — what about…” he sticks out his tongue in concentration, quickly typing something into youtube, before grinning triumphantly when the song begins to play. “This time,” he says solemnly along with DJ Casper. “We’re gonna get _funky.”_

Harry grins, laughing, and bends over to make Poppy clap her hands along with _clap, clap, clap, clap your hands._

“This song taught a generation of us how to dance,” he tells her, not quite able to keep a straight face. “And now your dad and I are going to teach you the honoured tradition of the Cha Cha Slide.”

“Take it back now y’all!” Louis sings along, giggling at Poppy’s wide eyes.

“1 hop this time!” Harry tells her. “Right foot let’s stomp! Left foot let’s stomp!”

_“Cha cha real smooth,”_ Louis adds, and he can’t quite keep back the peal of laughter at Harry’s cha cha.

Louis picks Poppy up, bouncing her up and down as Harry obediently stomps his feet to the instructions. “Right foot two stomps!” He jostles her to the double beat. “Left foot two stomps!”

She makes a gurgling noise, clearly loving it.

_“Sliddde to the left! Sliddde to the right! Criss-cross! Criss-cross!”_

This time, Harry’s cha cha consists of a very energetic hip-wiggle that Louis is very much regretting not filming. He jiggles Poppy, laughing too hard to sing along any further, and she seems to take her cue from him to keep giggling. Harry grins at her.

“Do you like the cha cha slide?” He asks, coming up and gently prodding her chubby cheek. “Is it real smooth?”

“Boo. Bad joke.” Louis gives him a one-handed thumbs down, and Harry sticks out his tongue. “Hey, shall I play the macarena?”

“No, no, wait,” Harry takes the laptop, typing something in as Louis sits back down. The song begins, and he meets Louis’ eyes with a fiendish grin. _“Heyyyyy — eyyyy baby!”_ he sings dramatically, hands outstretched to Poppy, who seems to be loving the attention. _“I wanna knoww-oww-oww if you’ll be my girl!”_

Louis laughs, and takes Poppy’s hands so she claps along with the _‘ooh! ah!’._ “Harry Styles you absolute charmer,” he shakes his head. “My baby is gonna have the biggest ego there ever was.”

_“She’s so pretty! Lo-ooks fine!”_ Harry continues to sing, ignoring him. _“I’M GONNA MAKE HER MINE, ALL MINE!”_

Poppy jiggles happily at that, continuing to make nonsensical happy baby noises as Harry returns to the chorus. They continue to badly dance and laugh their way through _Soulja Boy, Push the Button,_ and the _Cheeky Girls,_ and would have butchered even more had Poppy not grown tired and cranky.

“Shame we didn’t get to _Who Let The Dogs Out,”_ Harry says, shaking his head. “Truly a masterpiece.”

“Ah, the age-old question,” Louis agrees. _“Who? Who? Who-who?”_

Honestly, Louis doesn’t even know how he and Harry ended up cracking out the dad dancing to old music in front of his six month old baby — Harry’s development games had started out simple, just lying Poppy on her tummy and entertaining her with toys so as to promote what Louis’ doctor insists on calling ‘tummy time’, but there had been more games after that and it had all sort of escalated. He’s just incredibly glad Briana isn’t home, because he’s pretty sure she’d have died laughing at them and called them sleep-deprived idiots. Like, she’d be right, but still.

After giving Poppy a bath and putting her down for a nap, Louis goes out to the shops for a little while just to get out of the house, ignoring the paps camped outside of his gates who shout questions about his sexuality at him, and the bite of fear that comes with it. When he comes back, Briana’s on her laptop in the kitchen, and Harry’s — well. Harry’s all sweaty from working out at the gym in Louis’ basement, but he chooses not to dwell (too long) on that.

Bit of a dark path, really.

Then he’s reading up on some contract for next year and trying not to get too bored, twirling a pencil around his fingers as the words blur together. He’s so intent on telling himself to _suck it up and read,_ and mostly failing, that he almost misses it.

“Lou! _Louis!_ Get down here!”

It’s Harry shouting, and Louis’ heart is in his throat and he’s halfway down the staircase before he registers that it’s not fear in Harry’s rough voice, but excitement. He runs down the last few steps, (almost tripping over that fucking gate) and bursts into the living room. Harry’s all wet from a shower, hair curling at the base of his neck, fucking _beaming_ , and Briana’s laughing and clapping. Louis lowers his gaze to the ground, to where Poppy’s — oh my God.

“What is she _doing?”_ he laughs, dropping to a crouch to watch as his daughter excitedly shuffles along the ground on her bottom, wildly flailing her limbs for propulsion.

“She’s moving herself!” Harry tells him, somewhat redundantly. “It’s a huge milestone!”

“Isn’t she clever?” Bri is cooing. “Who’s my clever girl?”

Poppy’s arms give out momentarily and she slips onto her back, wiggling slightly uselessly until she manages to sit back up and continue shuffling. Louis shakes her head at how stupid it looks, grinning.

“You’re supposed to crawl, darling,” he tells her. “Much more stylish.”

Harry shoves his shoulder. “Stop suppressing your daughter’s creativity. _I_ think it’s wonderful.” He bends down to smile at Poppy. “You’re brilliant, aren’t you?”

“That’s our genes, right there,” Briana tells Louis, and they high-five. “I gotta admit, I was concerned about your side of the family, but looks like the Jungwirth influence is winning.”

“Piss off,” Louis tells her, scoffing. “This is all Tomlinson charm, right here. Bet you didn’t crawl — or shuffle on your bum — till you were, like, 12 months. I take full credit for Poppy being so smart.”

Briana rolls her eyes, but Louis misses her reply. Harry has sat down on the floor and picked Poppy up, holding her slightly tentatively. She blinks up at him, but makes no sign of discomfort, and this huge, dopey smile breaks out on Harry’s face.

“Hey,” he murmurs to her. “This isn’t so bad, is it?”

“Told you she’d come around,” Louis says, feeling disproportionately fond as she takes her thumb in her mouth and looks generally content. Harry switches his gaze from Poppy to Louis, grinning.

“She doesn’t hate me!”

“She never hated you, idiot, she just didn’t know you.”

Harry ducks his head and continues to smile sunshine and rainbows at the little baby in his arms; it’s quite the picture. “And now she does,” he finishes, unnecessarily.

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, and if the word comes out all soft — well, his baby’s growing, that’s all.

*******

“Liam, you absolute dog!” Louis greets him at the door, pulling him into a hug that muffles Liam’s response of ‘Tommo!’. “Where you been hiding, huh? We were beginning to think we’d frightened you off.”

Liam chuckles. “Nah, mate, but you know what it’s like. I show up to do one thing in New York and they want to keep me forever.”

“A popular man,” Louis teases, stepping aside so Liam can come in. “Bet you forgot all about us plebs, eh?”

“Yes, poor us, living in a Los Angeles mansion,” Briana shakes her head, grinning as she and Liam hug.

“Alright, Liam?” Harry says, holding Poppy — now that he comfortably can, it seems to be one of his favourite things to do. Liam looks up, momentarily surprised, and Louis may have mentioned Harry helping out for a little bit, but he also may have neglected to mention it being a relatively permanent thing.

“Harry,” Liam says, thankfully managing a pretty real smile. “Mate, hi. You ever gonna cut your hair or what?”

“The second one,” Harry says easily, although his eyes flick to Louis for a fraction of a second. “Eventually I won’t even need a duvet at night, just me and my luxurious hair.”

“That’s gross, Hazza,” Louis says without thinking, and is momentarily blind-sided by the fact that that’s possibly the first time he’s called Harry that in a couple years. He doesn’t think Harry misses it either, if the little half-smile is anything to go on.

“I’m not sure, he might be onto something,” Briana’s saying. “Life hack, right? Never buy a sleeping bag again.”

Harry nods, mouth still turned-up at the corners. “Copyright Harry Styles 2016. It’s gonna be a thing.”

“I’m sure the world will love it,” Louis drawls. “Tea, Liam?”

“That’d be great, thanks, Lou. You know my cousin is getting married? She’s having this huge thing in Scotland, and I have to wear an actual, like, kilt. They’re not even Scottish!”

Louis snorts, and they catch up for a little while over tea, Harry joining them at first but eventually going to do his own thing. It’s then that Liam’s expression dims a little.

“What are you doing, Louis?” He asks, frowning.

Louis blinks. “What?”

“You know what.”

He rolls his eyes. “What, is this about Harry? Because if it is then I honestly don’t know what’s bugging you. He’s just helping me and Bri out.”

“He’s living here, isn’t he?”

Louis shrugs. “Yeah? Like I’m gonna up the risk of him getting papped coming in here if he has to go home every night.”

“And if the paps find out he’s been staying here?” Liam purses his lips.

“Why _would_ they? Besides. Harry’s here to make all this...tabloid….gay stuff….easier. And, I don’t know. It’s kind of working. I don’t feel like I’m living in some sort of glass, breakable jar so much anymore. So what if me and Harry used to shag and now everyone knows? Poppy essentially crawled yesterday.”

Liam’s face lights up. “She did? Lou, that’s great! Did you film it?”

“Nah, and mum’s gonna kill me. It was all funny, though — not proper crawling, she just — ”

“Hang on, you’re trying to change the subject,” Liam glares at him. “We need to talk about this, Tommo.”

Drat. When did Liam get so perceptive? Louis sighs.

“Fine. What about it?”

“I just…” Liam draws his eyebrows together in a sad little frown. “I remember how much things sucked for you, Lou. At the end. And I don’t want to see that happen again.”

Louis opens his mouth to point out that they only broke up because of management and contracts and being in the closet, a series of criteria unlikely to occur again, only to realise that that whole strain of reasoning is entirely redundant seeing as he and Harry are _not actually dating._

“Liam,” he rolls his eyes. “He’s just helping around the house while everything blows over. As a friend. Nothing is going on between us. We broke up four years ago, alright? He cleaned the house and now he makes me and Bri surprisingly good meals. Is that alright with you, _Liam?”_

Liam still doesn’t look quite satisfied, but he gives in. “Alright, just. Be careful, kay?”

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m in so much danger,” Louis says sarcastically. He ignores the voice in his head pointing out how much he’s been staring at Harry lately, because Liam means _feelings_ and sexual attraction is irrelevant.

That night Briana stays in with Poppy while Louis and Harry go out with Liam. Louis’ been looking forward to it ever since Liam announced he was coming back to L.A. for a little while, feeling itchy and stuck in his house and ready to blow off some steam, and also a little eager at the prospect of getting laid, if he’s honest. This whole attraction thing he has going on with Harry is embarrassingly persistent, and he’s been bloody climbing the walls at home.

The club Liam takes them to is private, filled with rich and famous people and an unspoken rule of confidentiality, but it’s also not as seedy as it sounds. There’s a deep bass thrumming, feeling like it’s shaking through Louis’ bones, and all around is just a sea of unspecified faces and flashes of laughter and people dancing and _this_ — this is what he needed. He’s spent so long cooped up inside with only Bri and Poppy that he’s been going crazy, and Harry coming only seemed to make him crazier, so this is an opportunity to get wasted and dance with strangers and maybe even take a pointed trip to the toilets with someone, if all goes to plan, and he is not going to waste it. Indeed, there are a few girls about the place that already catch Louis’ eyes, and he’s not worn his best jeans and styled his hair for nothing.

“Drink?” Liam shouts over the music, jutting a thumb in the direction of the bar.

“Definitely,” Louis nods, and this is probably the sort of place that charges astronomical amounts for really small glasses of alcohol, but honestly it’s not like the three of them can complain about not being able to afford it.

They chat for a while at the bar, but when Louis catches the eye of a girl he breaks away pointedly, murmuring something and ignoring Liam’s snort. The girl has dark eyes and a nice smile, and Louis’ just tipsy enough that a bit of close dancing and flirty comments whispered into someone else’s ear are exactly what he wants.

He keeps in with her for a while, buying more drinks than he arguably should and pressing his mouth to her neck as they dance, tasting bitter perfume and laughing, until his breath shortens at the way she’s moving her hips. It doesn’t get anywhere, as she ends up too happy-drunk and giggling with one of her friends, head thrown back, but Louis doesn’t mind; he spends some time dancing badly with Liam and prodding Harry’s dimple, but the drunker he gets the more he wants to lick at the exposed collarbones under Harry’s half-unbuttoned shirt, and he quickly realises it’s probably best to keep his distance, what with the alcohol and the smoky music keeping him on edge and itching. Harry pouts, but Louis’ already caught the eye of another girl, her curves and mouth alluring and her eyes bearing an oddly challenging amount of amusement.

The night goes on, and Louis will remember it in hazy images — for most of it he’s not that drunk, but the whole atmosphere feels thick and inebriating, and the swirling lights have a strange effect on the way his memories play out. He remembers a hand in his hair, lips and dragging teeth at his cheekbones, the way the chorus of one song made the girl grind just right, and pushing through the crowd to get another drink, laughing at Liam’s face when a girl whispered something dirty in his ear. At one point he sees Harry alone at the bar, head bowed and mouth down-turned as he looks down at his drink, and wonders with fleeting concentration if he’s alright, but then he’s getting distracted and he remembers the eerie way the light played off of people’s teeth before he remembers anything else about Harry — this time dancing with someone near the corner of the club. There’s something about his face, eyes closed and high vantage lighting sculpting his cheekbones, that pulls at Louis, but then someone’s pulling at his arm and he’s back to dancing and drinking and losing all semblance of coherent thought.

At some point in the night Louis loses interest in the girl he’s dancing with. He’s high on the scent of sweat and the promise of more, the beat of the song in time with the rush of blood through his veins, and he sees Harry standing with his back to him, bent over slightly to hear what someone is whispering in his ear. Suddenly, it’s pressing that Louis have his attention, and the movement of the room feels out of touch with reality as he makes his way over, running his hands down Harry’s arm and pulling his mouth into a slow smile as Harry’s eyes flit to his.

“Hey,” he says, but the audio is lost to the music. Harry looks confused, but he’s no longer paying the other person any attention. Louis rocks up onto his tiptoes, smug. _“Hey.”_

Harry says something in return, and Louis watches his mouth form the syllables, watches the way Harry’s eyebrows draw together. Louis thinks that last word might have been his name, and he threads his fingers through Harry’s, and sways them to the beat. Harry’s mouth is all pink, perhaps from some fruity cocktail or from repeatedly tugging on his lower lip with long fingers, or perhaps he’s been kissing someone.

“Lou?” Harry says again, so Louis catches it this time. He doesn’t reply, too busy rubbing circles with his thumbs on the back of Harry’s hand, and it feels like the first time he’s allowed himself to get this close in years, and it feels like he isn’t close enough. The music continues to pound and the sharp tang of alcohol continues to taste at the back of Louis’ mouth as he leans forward, weight slipping into Harry’s as he presses their foreheads together.

Harry’s skin is hot to touch, burning a mark onto Louis’, and everything slows down as Harry’s breath hitches and his eyes darken, Harry’s fingers finding and clutching at Louis’ forearms. Louis isn't sure what's the pulse of the song and what's the insistent beating of his heart, isn't sure of much except the press of Harry's fingers, the sensation of their skin touching.

_He wants me to kiss him._ Louis can read it in the flutter of his lashes, the dart of his tongue to wet his lips, and for a dizzying beat imagines that he could. He’s not completely lost, though, and his mind shutters at he wants me to kiss him and he pulls his head back and ducks against Harry’s chest, giggling.

“Think you might’ve had enough, Louis,” Harry says after a few heady seconds, voice rough and rumbling. Louis can feel it through his shirt, and giggles again.

The rest of the night feels distant, and Louis at this point is so, so drunk. He remembers dancing some more, remembers slurring something at Liam, but he doesn’t get laid, in the end.

*******

Louis feels like absolute, astronomically stinking _shit_ the next morning. Christ, his head hurts and his knee hurts (why does his _knee_ hurt??) and his mouth is so dry his tongue feels like it’s shriveled and sticking to the back of his throat. His eyes throb at the weak light coming through the closed blinds of his room, and just — just — why does he do this. Every hangover Louis has ever had has felt like the worst thing to ever happen, like the entire world is coming to an end, and yet he continues to go out at night with the objection of getting off his face.

“Ugh,” he manages to croak, raising an arm and rubbing at his eyes. _Ugh._

At first he thinks his ears are ringing with the remnants of too-loud club music last night, but it can’t be, it’s too high and grating, too much like someone with a chainsaw trying to slice their way into his brain, and of course that’s when he remembers he has a little baby who's apparently somewhere in the house crying. Louis spends several seconds reminding himself that he loves Poppy, that the way her eyes crinkle and her laughter comes in bouts make his stomach do dumb affectionate swoops, because right now his thoughts are veering in dangerous directions that would no doubt make him feel _really_ guilty later on.

Luckily, Poppy chooses that moment to stop crying — either Bri or Harry must have sorted her out. Louis can go back to wallowing in peaceful misery. And, boy does he feel like wallowing right now. Everything hurts. Everyone should pity him. How can God be omnipotent and omnibenevolent when He left Louis to die slowly right here in such a state. Truly religion is flawed. Truly Louis feels like gum squashed under someone’s shoe.

Unfortunately, the wallowing doesn’t actually make him feel better, and the longer he lies there and stares at the ceiling, the more he realises that getting up is something he will have to do. So, with levels of courage and strength truly rivalled only by that which is necessary to climb Mount Everest, Louis undertakes sitting up, pauses while his head swims and his vision jars, and lets out a deep sigh he imagines could move even the most heartless to pity.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he decides, a decision he will throw out the window the next time someone suggests they go to a club, and stands up.

Several minutes later, Louis is throwing up into the toilet. So, all in all, a great start to the day.

“I am never drinking again,” he announces to the kitchen some time later, trying to be theatrical — although he can’t help but admit that the effect is somewhat undermined by how much he sounds like shit.

“Louis, you say that every time you have a hangover. You’ve never once meant it,” Harry tells him, slightly petulantly. Louis only forgives him for the outrageous slander due to the fact he dutifully adds more bacon to the already sizzling pan at his arrival.

“I might mean it this time,” he sniffs, collapsing into a chair at the table and then rather regretting it when the fast movement is rewarded by a bout of nausea. “I’ll have you know I’m an adult now, Harry. I have a child and everything.”

“God, don’t remind me,” Briana levels him with a faintly disgusted look. “I cannot believe I actually muddied the Jungwirth gene pool with you.”

Louis frowns at her. “Just because I mock you when you’re hungover doesn’t mean you get to be so _mean,”_ he complains.

Bri rolls her eyes, bumping Poppy up and down on her knee. “It literally does mean that. You laughed at my pain, now I laugh at yours.”

_“Children,”_ Harry warns. “Play nice.”

Louis finds himself grinning, and has to school his features into a pout. “But _da,”_ he whines. “Bri’s so _annoying.”_

She aims a kick at him under the table, and he sticks his tongue out when she misses. Harry’s plating up the bacon when Louis subsequently yelps loudly at Briana’s better aim, grabbing his knee and then groaning when his head spins at the jump.

“What the fuck, Bri,” he gets out through gritted teeth. He’s sort of exaggerating the pain, if he’s honest, but holy shit he did not expect his knee to hurt like that. “Christ, why does my knee hurt this much??”

“Oh, quit being such a baby.”

“You guys,” Harry sighs. “I was joking about the children thing. Louis, you are not the only one with a hangover. Kindly shut up.”

“No, for real,” Louis goes on, rolling up his pyjama bottoms. “Why is my knee so sore?”

“Oh,” Harry pauses, halfway through putting the plates of bacon on the table. “Yeah, about that.”

Louis stares at the large bruise on his knee. “What the fuck?”

“Okay, so I sort of dropped you last night,” Harry admits sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

Louis is still gaping at his bruise. _Ow._ “You _dropped_ me? Why were you in a _position_ to drop me?”

Harry sits down at the table, drumming his fingers on the surface and avoiding anyone’s gaze. Louis pointedly ignores Briana guffawing in the background to narrow his eyes.

_“Harold.”_

“You were, like, super drunk, alright? And you wouldn’t shut up until I carried you up the stairs, and I didn’t want you to wake up Briana or Poppy, so I...tried to carry you up the stairs.”

Briana’s gone, at this point, laughing so hard that even Poppy’s begun to giggle. Louis is too busy levelling Harry with a glare to give them any real attention.

“You _dropped_ me down the _stairs?”_

“Not all the way! You just. I don’t know. Fell a little, but not, like, all the way down the stairs.”

“I am _injured,_ Harold!”

“Well you shouldn’t have made me carry you! I was drunk too, I can’t be held responsible.”

Louis prods the bruise and hisses. “I cannot believe you dropped me down the stairs.”

“Well _I_ can’t believe you wouldn’t stop whining until I had to forcibly carry you up the stairs,” Harry retorts.

Briana stops chuckling long enough to ask, incredulous, “You can’t?”

“Okay,” Harry concedes, biting into a strip of bacon and grimacing. “I can completely believe it. Doesn’t make it any less _his_ fault, though.”

“Harry, you literally dropped me down a flight of stairs,” Louis shakes his head, beginning to dig into his food. Grease is exactly what he needs right now. Grease and sympathy.

He does, however, as he continues to chew his admittedly delicious bacon, faintly remember something from last night. Something like wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck and slurring into his skin about how he wouldn’t move if he wasn’t carried, something like humming contentedly when Harry gave in, and then mumbling about his strength. There’s also a memory of slipping and falling hard on his knee, of course, but he’s too busy being mortified by the rest of it to bother giving Harry anymore grief. God, let’s pray Harry never brings up the details.

That’s not all that’s coming back to him from last night, though. And the other thing is a lot clearer, and a lot more confusing.

_He wants me to kiss him._ Louis remembers thinking it so clearly, filled with certainty that that was what Harry wanted — he can still see the way Harry’s eyes had darkened. Had he really…? Does he…?

But no, of course not. Harry had been drunk, too, and someone had pressed their face right next to his — of course his body had reacted accordingly. There’s no reason for Louis to be so egocentric about it.

Still, he’s a little shaken up by the whole thing, unsure what to think as he eats the rest of his breakfast in silence while Briana gently teases Harry for trying to fireman-lift Louis up the stairs while off-his-face drunk. The thing is, Louis only accepted this whole arrangement with Harry on the assumption that neither of them felt that way anymore — any feelings getting in the way would be super complicated. What with Louis feeling more and more attracted to Harry, anything on top of that would just....but there’s no need to go down that road. Harry was _drunk._ Louis’ just making a huge deal out of nothing.

Besides, Harry was right that him being around and dealing with some of the minor stuff helps. Before, the idea of a sudden influx of paps banging on Louis’ gate and shouting stuff again had made his skin crawl, and the thought of journalists and people badgering him for some sort of reference to his and Harry’s past relationship, some sort of explanation for his sexuality, had been terrifying, and completely overwhelming. But he has more time to breathe, now. There are still a bunch of paps outside his house gates, but the three of them just leave or enter the property in a car with tinted windows and it’s not really a problem. Louis actually gets a sort of smug pleasure out of watching the missed phone calls from Modest! pile up on his phone, imagines them sweating as he and Harry continue to just ignore the outside world. He hasn’t checked the tabloids lately, hasn’t read up on the public opinions, but he’d be surprised if there wasn’t still a lot of theorising about him and Harry, bets that the internet exploded with victorious and ecstatic fans. He wonders if anyone’s made the connection of Harry disappearing off the surface of the earth the moment he turned up in L.A. — and thinks that, if thousands of their fans had sussed out their relationship based purely on a couple of exchanged glances, then yeah. Someone probably has.

And the idea doesn’t freak him out like it had before.

*******

“What the fuck is that?” Bri asks a few days later, sounding horrified.

Harry grins at her. “Isn’t it sweet?”

“Honestly I’m having to restrain myself from setting it on fire,” Briana answers, and the look on her face makes sure Louis doesn’t doubt it. “I’m telling you right now, Harry Styles, you are _not_ dressing my daughter in that jersey.”

Louis isn’t really sure what Harry was expecting. Admittedly, Poppy would look absolutely adorable in the Green Bay Packers jersey, but that’s less the team and more the really cute baby, not that Louis’ biased or anything. Briana, he knows for a fact, does not think the jersey is cute, and would never think it was cute, under any circumstances, at all.

“Come on,” Harry pouts a little. “Imagine how sweet she’d look!”

“Poppy does not support the Green Bay Packers, Harry!” Briana snaps at him.

“You mean _you_ don’t support the Green Bay Packers.”

“No, I mean _Poppy_ doesn’t support the Green Bay Packers, because _Poppy_ is six and a half goddamn months old! You are not dressing her in a football jersey when she has no idea what football is!”

“Oh, so it wouldn’t matter if I had picked a different team?”

“No it would not!”

“Children, children,” Louis rolls his eyes. _“Relax._ Your argument is redundant, because everyone knows Poppy doesn’t care about American Football, anyway. What she _should_ be wearing, is a Doncaster Rovers shirt.”

_“Shut up, Louis,”_ Harry and Briana say, at the same time, with varying levels of exasperation. Louis raises his hands in submission, shaking his head.

“Alright, alright, I’ll leave the two of you to tear each other to shreds. No room for reason here, I see.”

(They ignore him.)

“You’re going to take that shirt back to the shop right now, you understand me?”

“I’m not taking the shirt back, Bri.”

“Well you damn well better have a little dog you intend to dress up in that ridiculous costume,” Bri warns him. “Cause that thing isn’t going anywhere near my baby!”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Harry insists. “It’s just a little jersey, and she’s gonna look really cute in it.”

_“Gonna —?”_

“Harry has a point,” Louis interrupts her, shrugging. “She would look sort of cute in it.”

Bri rolls her eyes at him. “Oh, well of course _you’d_ agree with Harry.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Come on, Bri,” Harry’s saying. “I’ve always wanted to dress up a little baby. Their clothes are so small and cute! And I just think — ”

“Then have your own baby!” she cries. “Dress that one up in poorly-chosen football team paraphernalia. Poppy is _my_ baby, _I_ carried her for nine months and therefore I get to veto goddamn _Green Bay Packers_ jerseys!”

Harry opens his mouth to retort, but at this point Louis’ lost interest in the argument, so he picks up Poppy and goes to read her _Room on the Broom_ for the thousandth time, rolling his eyes at the now fading sounds of Harry and Briana arguing about American football teams.

They continue to bicker on and off for the rest of the day, with Harry insisting Poppy would look cute in it and Bri making up some bullshit about indoctrination from an early age, when they all know it’s just because she doesn’t like the Green Bay Packers. Louis continues to not really care about the conversation, making faces at Poppy so she giggles and splutters.

Then the next day Briana goes out to lunch with her mum, and as Louis walks past Harry’s room — uh, the guest room, that is — he hears the unmistakable sound of cooing. Admittedly, this is not uncommon in a house that contains both the cutest baby in the world and someone who loves children as much as Harry Styles, but Louis’ still immediately suspicious.

And, sure enough, when he pushes open the door it’s to find Harry sitting cross-legged on his bed and grinning, holding Poppy up in pride and complimenting her, in an entirely serious tone of voice, on her choice of football team.

“Working hard on those songs then, Harold?” Louis asks, folding his arms.

Harry’s eyes light up at the sight of him, and he laughs. “I’m thinking of greeting Bri at the door, just like. Super casual. Holding Poppy. _Hey, how was lunch?_ And she’ll be all, _‘wahh!’”_

Louis rolls his eyes. “Boring, Harry. That’s what she’ll _expect_ you to do. Here’s a better idea.”

(Harry makes a face at Poppy, because he’s an ingrate who doesn’t understand true genius when he sees it. Louis ignores it.)

****“When she comes home Poppy’ll be napping or playing with her toys or whatever, completely innocuous, right? And we’ll act like it was just a normal afternoon, like you totally forgot about the jersey. Lulls her into a false sense of security, doesn’t it? _But,_ you’ll have taken a picture of Poppy, all cute in her little costume, and then when Bri’s asleep you take her phone and set it as her background picture. So she wakes up tomorrow, yawns etc etc, _checks her phone,_ and — BAM! Green Bay Packers baby.”

“Green _Baby_ Packers,” Harry says, with a wink. It’s stupidly charming.

“Yeah, yeah, _several bad puns later._ You in, or what?”

Harry scoffs. “You’re honestly suggesting we have a photoshoot of the cutest baby in the world wearing a Packers jersey. Like I’d ever say no.”

Louis nods. “That’s what I thought.”

In hindsight, they might go a little overboard with the photoshoot. But in their defence, they have been through a hell of a lot of photoshoots in their time, so they can’t just sit back and take a picture of Poppy in bad lighting, they gotta find the perfect position around the house. And maybe the making of the Packers flag was a little unnecessary, but she looks so _cute_ holding it, and they had the materials anyway, and the ‘G’ might be a little sloppily coloured-in because Harry kept making Louis laugh, but the effect is more-or-less the same: Briana is gonna be pissed.

Louis keeps giggling as Harry manoeuvres Poppy, speaking in a flagrantly camp tone of voice and calling her ‘darling’, going on about the right lighting and how each shot will be _‘golden!’_

“Louis, darling,” he crows. “Your daughter is so photogenic! _Multo bello!”_

“Since when were you Italian,” Louis asks, laughing. “You can’t just change accents.”

“Why, Signor Tomlinson, this is _showbiz!_ A man has to change his accent every few hours just to stay relevant!”

Louis snorts. “Ah, vraiment.”

Poppy starts to shift, apparently getting restless, so they unfortunately have to get on with the actual taking of pictures quicker than he’d have liked, but they definitely end up with some great shots.

“I’m thinking the new Christmas card,” Louis says, chuckling as he swipes through the pictures they took. “I can photoshop in some holly or something, make it seasonal.”

Harry laughs. “Like Briana would ever let you get away with that.”

Louis shrugs. “Poppy’s half mine, isn’t she? We can each send out half a card. You know, compromise.”

In reality Louis’ not really the kind of guy that does Christmas cards, not in that suburban white family sort of way, and despite living in a big ol’ L.A. mansion he doesn’t really intend to become one. Still, he bets threatening to make it their Christmas card will be a great way to irritate Briana: a favourite pastime.

“Yeah, I’m sure Bri’ll agree to half a Christmas card,” Harry shakes his head, still smiling slightly.

“I don’t understand how she’ll be able to resist sending this one when Poppy looks so _cute,”_ Louis continues, thrusting his phone into Harry’s face so he can see how sweet she is. “I’m gonna send this picture to everybody.”

*******

The dawning of the next day brings with it not the usual scream of Poppy growing hungry or wishing to be changed, but a whole new sort of bellow. The sound of Briana’s wrath.

_“Harry Styles!”_ she shouts, voice high-pitched and furious. The sound ricochets through the house, jolting Louis from sleep, and that coupled with the sound of Poppy beginning to cry from where she’d been sleeping in the cot at the end of his bed means for one horrible moment he thinks something’s gone wrong, either Harry’s dead or Poppy’s choking or there’s a red-eyed axe murderer breaking down the door with hooliganic shouts. But then he remembers last night, when he and Harry had tiptoed into Bri’s room and, barely able to suppress their laughter, changed her background and lockscreen to the desired picture of Poppy in the Packers jersey. His fear quickly fades into amusement.

Of course, he then has to calm Poppy down and assure her no one’s actually dying, and he is slightly annoyed that he didn’t get to sleep any longer, so the plan sort of backfired, but it’s 100% worth it when he comes into the kitchen and sees Briana sitting at the table, expression thunderous.

“Really, Lou?” she demands upon seeing him.

Louis plays dumb. “What?”

“My phone background? You know I fucking hate the Packers. And on my _child._ My own flesh and blood! The Packers!”

Louis delicately sets Poppy down in her high chair. “I don’t know what you mean. Now _Harry_ might have —”

“Cut the crap, Tomlinson. This has you written all over it. Besides, Harry doesn’t know my phone password.”

Louis turns to her, expression innocent, but ends up crumbling and snorting at the look on her face. “Oh, come on, Bri. It’s _funny._ And she looks so sweet!”

“She looks ridiculous! Not to mention like she’s supporting the wrong damn team!"

“I thought this wasn’t about the team,” Louis teases.

“Louis — !”

Luckily it’s at this point that Harry makes the ill-advised decision of appearing in the kitchen, and Briana starts yelling at him instead. Louis, however, is suddenly finding it a lot more difficult to concentrate. Uh...

It seems Harry has decided that it has officially been an acceptable amount of time to start walking around in just his boxers. Honestly, Louis’ sort of surprised it took him this long — possibly he felt unsure how Briana would feel about it — but questions about Harry’s motivation for keeping his clothes on thus far have sort of flown out the window. Everything else, too, has sort of flown out the window.

Jesus, that’s a lot of bare skin.

The thing is, Louis knows he’s staring. His jaw’s dropped to the floor and, even though Harry’s been in the kitchen for a good ten minutes now and is well on his way to cooking breakfast, he still can’t quite stop moving his eyes up to look. And, obviously he’s seen Harry shirtless since they broke up — on tour it was pretty impossible not to see at least two naked forms of his fellow bandmates per week — but it still feels different. Louis finds himself, like an idiot, focusing on the fact that the last time he and Harry had sex there’d been decidedly less tattoos. Finds himself wondering what it would be like now, to put his mouth on all that ink, run his hands over wider shoulders and tug on all that hair.

But Briana’s shooting him a weird look, and he’s literally sitting across from his six month old baby. _Christ, get it together._ So he shuts the mortifyingly horny part of his brain down and starts talking some shit about Lottie’s new boyfriend, hoping he wasn’t too obvious.

Which of course means that, after breakfast, Briana corners him.

“Okay seriously, Louis, what is going on with you and Harry?” she demands, and Harry’s far away in his room but Louis still wishes she wouldn’t talk so loud.

“What about me and Harry?” he asks, shifting uncomfortably.

“All this sexual tension! Christ, you’d think the two of you never broke up. And I know a considerable proportion of your fanbase thinks you never did. I mean...all this _staring_ you guys do. It’s disgusting.”

Louis frowns at her. “I don’t stare at Harry.” Much.

“Uh, yes you do? Literally all the time. And when you do, you don’t hold out. I can practically see you undressing him with your eyes, it’s totally gross, with little bits of drool and stuff.”

Louis’ aghast. “I do not _drool_ , Bri, what?”

“Uh, you most certainly do too drool. And that’s not even mentioning just now! When he came in practically naked and Marvin Gaye’s _Let’s Get It On_ started to play, or at least it did in your mind, clearly, because you clammed up and your face went all weird and you kept licking your lips and I’m telling you right now, please, for the love of God, keep it in your pants. I may have willingly slept with you a couple times but that does not mean I feel inclined to listen to you and Harry have gross marathon sex. Nor do I wish to see you fantasise about said gross marathon sex. In the kitchen, nonetheless.”

Louis feels his cheeks heat up slightly. “Bri, I’m not gonna have gross marathon sex with Harry.”

“Are you sure?” she levels him with a disbelieving stare. “Because if you’re not staring at him then he’s staring at you, and I bet if you actually went into his room and read all these ‘songs’ he’s been writing they’d just be terrible ballads about the curve of your ass, or crappy love songs about an unspecified person with blue eyes and sarcasm. Come _on,_ Louis, I have eyes. I see you guys lusting over each other.”

Louis blinks. “He looks at me?”

Briana stares at him, and then throws her hands up in the air. _“Unbelievable._ I’m seriously living in a house of unresolved sexual tension. You can’t honestly tell me you’re oblivious.”

Louis isn’t really sure what to do with the information that Harry stares at him. Like, really, really isn’t sure. “He…?”

“For Christ’s sake, Louis. Don’t tell me there are feelings involved in this?”

He bristles. “Bri, come on. We broke up like four years ago. I’m maybe a little bit attracted to him, but it’s nothing stupid like that.”

“You sure about that? Because I heard you guys come back drunk that night you all went out with Liam, and you were all over him.”

Louis folds his arms. “So maybe I’m a touchy drunk. So what.”

“For fuck’s sake, Louis, I’ve been drunk with you a hundred times, I know what you’re like drunk. That? Was not just drunk Louis. Honestly, you were saying the most embarrassing shit, all _oh, Harry, let’s — ”_

“Alright, alright,” Louis says quickly, holding up his hands. “Let’s not go down the stuff-drunk-Louis-says road. It’s a dark and winding path, and I should not be held accountable. Anyway, you’re wrong.”

Briana looks at him for a long while, before sighing. “Fine. Just...don’t go being an asshole about this, okay?”

Louis shrugs. “I’m telling you, Bri. There’s nothing to be an arsehole about.”

“Hm,” she purses her lips, but thankfully drops it. Louis’ more than relieved.

***********

In the beginning, when Briana had just given birth, she had been terribly afraid to ever leave Poppy. Would hold this tiny, vulnerable little child in her arms and tell Louis that she didn’t know how she would ever be able to let her out of her sight. She hadn’t liked the idea of Poppy sleeping in Louis’ room, would get anxious if anyone took her away for too long, and was forever telling Louis that at that age, Poppy didn’t realise she was a different entity to Briana, hadn’t developed a sense of self, so that when she was alone she only felt like she was going to die.

_Imagine what that feels like,_ Bri would say to Louis, deep circles engraved under her eyes. _Don’t you understand why I can’t just abandon her?_

And it had taken all too long to make her understand that when she left to have a little time to herself, she wasn’t abandoning Poppy. That it was alright to step away sometimes, to hand Poppy to Louis or to one of her friends and trust that she’d still be alive and happy once Briana returned. And it took even longer to convince her it was okay to spend the night away, every once in awhile.

So, of course, it’s while Bri’s out for the night that Poppy gets sick.

It starts out little, just Poppy being reluctant to play at her normal time, growing sleepier and sleepier. Louis frowns, but she’s not crying, just lethargic, so he doesn’t really think anything of it, not like he should. He keeps her awake for a little bit longer, until it’s nearer to her normal bedtime, and then gives in and puts her down in her cot. It’s not till later, when he pokes his head in to check on her and sees that she’s still awake, still just lying there, that he realises something’s wrong. Her cheeks are slightly flushed, and when he presses a hesitant hand to her forehand, he feels how it’s clammy and hot.

“Hey,” he murmurs, feeling his heartbeat pick up. “Hey, now, love, what’s this?”

Louis’ read up on fevers. Having a small life almost completely reliant on you can lead to a lot of faintly hysterical late-night googling for what could go wrong, so he knows that he shouldn’t necessarily phone a doctor at this age. Still, Poppy seems so fragile in his arms, blinking sluggishly and hot to touch, and — is her breathing laboured? No, no. He’s being irrational. It might not even be a fever.

Still, his fingers feel shaky as he goes down and puts Poppy down in her high chair and gets her thermometer, making sure it’s clean before he checks her. _101._

100.4 and above counts as a fever — Louis remembers his doctor telling him that. So Poppy is 0.6 degrees into a fever...how bad is that? He swallows.

“Not feeling too good, are you, bubba?” he asks Poppy, voice uncertain, taking her in his arms and jiggling her up and down. “Bit sickly, hey?”

He can hear the faint sound of Harry messing around on his guitar upstairs, probably still fiddling with one of his new songs even though it’s late, and it feels like he’s bringing news of the plague as he walks up the stairs, every little stuttering breath Poppy emits feeling like it’s about to be her last. If there’s one thing Louis doesn’t want to be right now, it’s alone, so he’s immeasurably glad someone else is home.

“Harry?” he calls through the door, gently resting his chin on the top of Poppy’s head and trying not to panic at how warm it feels. His voice sounds sort of weird, too open, too quiet, in the empty air, and Harry obviously thinks this too, because there’s the sound of rustling and he throws open the door, brow creased.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Louis bites his lip. “I...uh, I think Poppy has a fever. No, I know she has a fever. I—I don’t know how bad it is though. Is 101 bad?”

Harry looks panicked. “101? God, I don’t know. That doesn’t mean anything to me. What’s that in Celcius?”

“Like…” Louis’ brain scrambles. “38?”

“I mean...that’s a fever, yeah. Christ, fevers are bad, right?” Harry presses the back of his hand to Poppy’s forehead, eyes wide. “Especially in babies. What are...does she look all right? What if it gets worse? My friend used to have seizures as a baby when he got a fever. Fuck, what if she — ” he cuts off, apparently noticing the increasing level of panic on Louis’ face, and lets out a breath. “Hey, hey, no, ignore me. She’ll be fine. Louis? She’ll be fine.”

“You just said your friend had seizures!” Louis gapes at him. “What if she has a seizure? I can’t — I don’t — ”

“Lou,” suddenly, Harry’s pressing his hands to Louis’ face, eyes serious. _“Hey,_ she’ll be fine. If we think it’s getting bad, we’ll call a doctor. Okay?”

Louis feels like he can’t breathe. “Okay,” he agrees, voice croaky, and for a whole second Harry’s hands remain cradling his face, warm and grounding, before he drops his arms limply back to his sides.

_If you’re not staring at him, then he’s staring at you._

But this isn’t the time for thoughts like that: too confusing, too distracting. Louis needs to google infant fevers.

“Come on,” he clears his throat. “My laptop’s in my room. I gotta go...see what the net says, _Christ.”_

Part of him wants to snap and call a doctor, because _fucking Web MD is not a legitimate substitute, this is your baby you absolute moron,_ but his doctor had said fevers are pretty normal, not a concern unless they last a long time or the baby’s under three months. Not under 104, at least, and Poppy’s still 3 degrees safe. He needs to be sensible, needs to prove he can actually handle this parenting thing.

So when the internet suggests he give Poppy a lukewarm bath, that’s exactly what he does. And he dresses her in her lightest babygrow, and tells himself not to panic when her temperature hasn’t gone down. Harry’s a comforting presence, voice slow and morose as always, and despite his initial bout of panic he’s being fairly calm about the whole thing — although that might just be in comparison to Louis, who sort of feels like he’s going to break down at any moment.

The problem is that, with a fever, there’s not much Louis can do. He can’t burst heroically into the room and dramatically present a plaster, like he used to do to make his sisters giggle through their tears when they had a small injury, or (only slightly) jokingly offer to get Stan and go beat up whoever upset them when they would come home sniffling, because this isn’t something you can cover up or laugh away. He can’t even tell Poppy that everything’s gonna be alright, or tease her till she’s focusing on being cross and not being sick, because she’s so little that whatever he says she only blinks up at him, not understanding. Maybe she’s comforted by him being there, but it’s upsettingly hard to tell. All he and Harry can do is sit and hope her fever will break soon, as each new hour bleeds away painfully slowly. It feels like the longest night of his life.

At first she was quiet, almost unnervingly so, swallowing and staring, but at some point as the night grows she splutters and begins to cry, face screwing up. Harry gets up and checks her temperature.

“It’s risen,” he says, voice hoarse. Louis feels his heart sink. If her temperature keeps rising, if something’s genuinely, properly wrong with her, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. If he has to take her to hospital, has to stand and look at his tiny baby in one of those incubators, all fragile and far away, has to tell all his family that she’s ill — he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Can hardly imagine dealing with something like that. Harry offers him a grimace, and Louis swallows and tells himself to get a grip.

Once she’s started crying, Poppy doesn’t seem to want to stop, and even when she falls quiet now her eyes shine with tears and her little face looks so distraught, that Louis just knows she’s in pain. God, he’s so tired, but he’s so afraid of her getting worse that he can barely blink.

“Don’t you think we should call Bri?” Harry asks at one point, into the momentary quiet after Poppy’s given up screaming for a few moments.

Louis creases his brow, looking down at Poppy’s puffy and agitated features and stroking a thumb along her wrist. “I...dunno. I don’t want to freak her out. She — at first, she didn’t like to...I don’t want her to be dumb about leaving Poppy again.”

Harry scrunches up his mouth, contemplative, before drawing a hand across his face. “Thing is, Louis, she’d never forgive you if — uh,” he falters, and coughs. “She’ll never trust you enough to leave Poppy with you if you, you know, don’t tell her when something’s wrong.”

Louis thinks Harry might have come dangerously close there to saying _‘she’d never forgive you if something happened’,_ which is a stupid thing to say because he should know that nothing’s going to happen to Poppy, that she’s going to be fine. Still, he does have a point about Bri not trusting him if he doesn’t tell her things.

“Okay,” he sighs, but when they phone Briana she doesn’t pick up, undoubtedly deep asleep like Louis wishes he could be, because it’s late _late_ at night. He leaves a voicemail, but doesn’t want to keep phoning in case she wakes up tomorrow and freaks out at the nine missed calls. Besides, Poppy’s fine, for now. He can only press his palms into his eyes and wait.

Around quarter to four in the morning, her temperature has risen to 103.3 degrees. She’s started refusing liquids.

“I’m calling the doctor,” Louis says, so exhausted he almost expects Harry to argue with him. But Harry just nods, and looks worried, and that’s sort of worse.

The doctor, however, doesn’t sound nearly as concerned as Louis thinks he should be. The internet said that you should bring your baby in automatically if their temperature is 104 degrees, and 103.3 feels bloody close enough to Louis, and he reckons that the bored-sounding doctor would sound a lot less bored if he’d had to sit up for hours and hours with a sad, fevered little baby who doesn’t understand why she’s hurting, who cries and cries and sometimes falls silent and stares and suffers. When Louis snaps and tells the doctor this, however, describing Poppy’s clammy forehead and refusal of liquids, the doctor only tells him to give her some baby ibuprofen.

“She hasn’t been feverish too long, by the sound of it, which is good,” the doctor says into the phone. Louis has the irrational urge to drive over and slap him. “103.3 degrees is high enough to warrant ibuprofen,  but don’t overdo it. Once you’ve given her some you need to sit with her, make sure she’s doing okay, and if her temperature hasn’t lowered in an hour, call me back.”

“Okay,” Louis agrees, although all he wants to do is yell some more. Harry’s looking at him worriedly, though, so he thanks the doctor, hangs up and tries to shrug. The gesture doesn’t quite carry the aloofness he was aiming for.

They give Poppy the ibuprofen, nervous, and Louis has the irrational certainty that it’s not going to do anything, that Poppy’s just going to keep getting worse and worse.

“Stop thinking like that,” Harry tells him, sounding weary even as he tries for earnest. “Fevers are normal, Lou, alright?”

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, weakly. “I know, it’s just scary.”

Harry tries for a smile. “The great Louis Tomlinson, scared?”

The joke falls flat, though, because — yeah. Yeah he is scared. Absolutely terrified that he’s going to lose his little girl before she even had a chance. There’s nothing the two of them can do, though, except wait for an hour and make sure nothing dramatic happens to Poppy in the meantime, so Louis sits down on his bed, Poppy in his arms, and gestures with his head that Harry should join him.

Christ, he’s tired. His eyes pulse faintly as he looks down at the baby in his arms, and he keeps fighting back yawns even if he feels too wired with worry to sleep right now. Harry sighs beside him, and reaches up to rub at his eyes. This night really does feel endless.

“Hey,” Louis says, at one point. He’s got his head tipped back, weird shapes playing in front of his eyes as he stares blankly into the dim light of his room, so he blinks quickly in an attempt to wake up.

“Yeah?” Harry replies hoarsely. Louis thinks he might’ve been nodding off, and can’t blame him.

“We, uh, never really talked about it.”

Harry makes a little, short, yawning noise. “Talked about what?”

This is dangerous ground, but — “Us. You know. Breaking up.”

“Oh,” Harry says, and the word sits in the air for a moment. It’s the sort of conversation that would never happen in the day, the sort that needs the blanket reassurance of dim lighting and thick night outside, as well as the loose-tongue of exhaustion, and Louis doesn’t think he’d ever have been able to bring it up in other circumstances. It doesn’t really fit in with their unspoken agreement of barely mentioning what they used to mean to each other.

“Not that, I mean, not that we have to. I just. I don’t think we ever have. And it’s been like, four years. So.”

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, and he sounds a little like he doesn’t know what to say. “I mean, no, we haven’t. But...yeah. Maybe we should.”

Maybe, indeed. Maybe what Louis needs is closure; not just what happened, not just telling yourself you have to let the other person go, now, with no clear reason and barely any goodbye. Still, there’s a small silence, where neither of them seem to want to say anything. Louis sneaks a look at Harry out the corner of his eye, but Harry’s not looking at him.

“I mean, it — sucked,” Louis says, and then cringes. “That’s...that sounds stupid, but — ”

“No,” Harry interrupts, hoarse. “Yeah. Uh, yeah. It really did suck.”

“I didn’t want to,” Louis admits. “Like, I really didn’t want to.”

Again, there’s a pause. “Me neither,” Harry says eventually, in a hushed sort of croak, like it’s something he doesn’t like to think about. Louis can relate.

“...right,” he replies, and then huffs out a little laugh. “Guess that’s fame, huh?”

“Guess so,” Harry laughs, sounding relieved, but then he says in a hurry, “I mean, I don’t regret the band, or anything.”

“No,” Louis agrees, quickly. “No, not at all. That bit was pretty amazing.” Sucked, a lot, in the actual everyday details and the complications, but — yeah. Louis wouldn’t have given it up.

“It was,” Harry shakes his head. “Sort of like a dream, huh?”

Louis feels the corners of his mouth pull up into a semi-smile. “You’ve used that line in a hell of a lot of interviews, Haz.”

Harry chuckles. “‘S cause it’s true,” he insists. Then pauses, and when he next speaks it’s different, more hesitant. “You, uh, stopped calling me that, for a while.”

Louis’ smile slips off, and he moves his shoulders in a small shrug, careful not to disturb Poppy. “Yeah,” he acknowledges. “Yeah, I did. Just...got difficult, you know? After we broke up. Felt like it meant too much.”

“Right, yeah.”

Louis bites down on his lip. “I mean, it was hard for you too, right? After. Like, we’d been so...and then suddenly we couldn’t...it was hard. Especially ‘cause you were always there.”

“Saying you got sick of me?” Harry drawls, smiling, before growing serious again. “But yeah, Lou. Of course it was hard. I mean, I was in love, you know?”

Louis feels his breath hitch at the admission. It’s not like they hadn’t told each other, at the time — not like they hadn’t thrilled at saying it all the damn time, till Zayn would shout at them that he was gonna be sick, but it’s been a while, since then. And they haven’t talked about it since, not at all, and they certainly haven’t talked about how they’d been in love.

“And it, I don’t know, took a while,” Harry continues. “Before it didn’t hurt to look at you anymore. Took too long, honestly, before I didn’t have any feelings for you at all,” he laughs, slightly self-deprecating.

Louis doesn’t laugh, though. Because all Louis can think, all of a sudden, is _oh._ Because of course Harry had gotten over Louis, of course he doesn’t have any feelings for him anymore — but it’s different, somehow, to hear it expressly referenced. Especially in a conversation all about how much they had missed each other when they’d been forced to break up. It’s dumb, but...it just hurts, kind of, to hear that Harry doesn’t feel anything for him anymore. He’d sort of begun to think...barely, just, in the back of his mind, that...it’d been sort of half-baked, obviously, hesitant, but he’d...but obviously not. And that sort of hurts. Maybe it’s because 20 year old Louis had been so, so in love with him. Or maybe it’s because of something else.

Louis swallows, and when he glances down he sees that Poppy is finally, finally, asleep.

“Hey,” he says, breathless, all thoughts of anything but his daughter vanishing. “She’s asleep! That’s — that’s good, surely?”

Harry looks up at him, the beginnings of a smile playing on his face. “I...I think so. Here, let me get the thermometer.”

He scrambles off the bed and gets it from the dresser, and Louis feels suddenly, terrifyingly nervous as he checks her. What if…? But no.

“It’s lowered,” Harry says, turning bright, exhausted eyes on Louis, and smiling. “It’s lowered.”

Louis could cry, honestly. He’s so tired, and he’s so overwhelmed, and he’s so, so relieved. It’s all he can do to lean forward and gently tuck Poppy into her cot, all tuckered out and tiny huffs of even breath. All the adrenaline, all the fear, seem to leave Louis in a flood, and his body aches with relief as he falls back onto his pillow, eyelids growing heavier with each passing second.

“Thank you,” he tells Harry, around a yawn. “I know I’ve been a right pain tonight.”

Harry lets out a quiet laugh. “Shit, Louis, it’s fine. You were worried.”

“Hm,” Louis agrees, trying to remember why he should keep his eyes open. His pillow is one of the comfiest things ever, honestly.

“Ah,” Harry sighs, and Louis feels a thump that is presumably his head falling back on the wall. “Now I have to walk all the way back to my room, when it’s…” he yawns. “...so far.”

Louis hums in agreement, snuggles further into his pillow. “So just stay,” he murmurs, before he can really think about it. He thinks he might hear Harry’s breath catch, but he’s so close to being asleep he’s barely aware of anything.

“Really?” Harry whispers, sounding hesitant.

Louis shrugs, although it’s barely a movement. He never wants to move again. “If you want.”

For a while, there’s no further sound, and Louis almost forgets he said anything, thoughts focusing on nothing but _sleep sleep_ and the whoosh of his own rhythmic breathing. Then, however, the bed shakes a little, and the light coming through his eyelids suddenly goes out. There’s a huff of breath, and Louis feels someone pull the duvet up over him. He doesn’t remember much after that.

*******

Louis wakes up groggier than usual. There’s a persistent cloud of drowsiness hanging over him, like he hasn’t quite emerged from a really deep sleep, and the space beside him is empty.

Huh.

So, he slept in the same bed as Harry last night. Logically, not that big a deal, but — huh. More importantly, Poppy isn’t in the cot at the end of the bed, meaning Harry must have taken her out so as to not wake Louis, _meaning_ her condition wasn’t worrying enough to wake Louis. Or — no, don’t be stupid; Harry would have woken him if something happened.

When he enters the kitchen he hears the tail-end of Harry on the phone to Briana, assuring her that Poppy’s fine, her fever decreased a little from last night.

“And she’s taking liquids again, which is — oh, I didn’t? Huh. Well, uh, yeah, she stopped taking liquids for a little while. Yeah, uh, it was. Sorry. No, yeah, obviously. Okay. See you in a little while, then,” Harry ends the phonecall, slightly awkwardly.

“She freak out, then?” Louis asks wryly. Harry turns, startled.

“Um, yeah,” he says, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “But — um, I told her everything’s fine, so. She’s coming back though.”

“Right,” Louis nods. _Why is this so awkward? Is this about sleeping in the same bed?_ Maybe he should…

“Well,” he clears his throat, going in for a teasing comment. “Seems I’d totally forgotten how much you kick during the night. Bloody octopus, huh?”

He’d hoped that Harry would level him with a joking glare, maybe make some criticism right back about the difficulties of sleeping next to Louis, but he just offers an unconvincing smile and starts cooking breakfast. Which is...weird. He can’t be offended, surely; Louis’ said a lot worse over the years. Besides, it’s not like the comment was honest. Actually, Louis thinks he slept better than he has in months, has a faint memory of wrapping himself around Harry in the night, pressing his nose into the curve where his neck meets his shoulder and snuggling into the warmth — Harry must have woken up with Louis completely plastered to his back. It’s how they’d always slept back when they were dating: completely wrapped around each other, and it seems Louis’ subconscious had fallen right back into the old habit.

Harry doesn’t seem likely to offer an explanation, though, just busies himself making an omelette, so Louis goes and takes Poppy from her high chair into his lap, tapping her on the nose.

“Hey, sweetie,” he murmurs, scanning her face and noting with relief that she looks better. “That ibuprofen really worked, huh? You gave us all a massive scare.”

Poppy blinks up at him with her huge, blue eyes, and yawns.

“Uh huh — it _was_ tiring, you’re right. But you’re getting better, aren’t you? Don’t want Mummy to have a massive freak out at the sight of you, do we? She’d murder me for sure, wouldn’t she?”

He thinks he hears Harry snort, and has to stamp down on his resulting smile. He lowers his voice for the next bit, feeling a little silly.

“Just...please don’t go getting worse again, okay? It was really very scary, and we don’t want to make Uncle Liam cry. Or...well, or me. It’s terrifying, feeling this way about a little rotter like you, really quite terrifying, so you’re gonna have to promise me that nothing will ever happen.”

Poppy makes a little baby noise, and he can’t stop his smile this time.

“I’m glad we came to this arrangement.”

“Uh, tea?” Harry says, suddenly hovering next to Louis and holding a mug. Louis feels his cheeks heat up a little at the idea of him hearing that last bit.

“Yeah, thanks,” he clears his throat, accepting the mug. Harry goes back to the counter, but Louis thinks this time he might be smiling.

*******

“Wait, hold on — you only called the doctor at _103.3 degrees?_ Louis are you a _fucking_ idiot?”

Louis frowns at her. “The internet said it wasn’t serious enough for —”

“I know what the goddamn internet says,” Briana rolls her eyes, stroking a possessive hand over the back of Poppy’s head. “But I also know that this is _my_ baby, and I am not taking chances. God, what if something had happened to her? Because you were too much of an idiot to ask a professional?”

“Wow, thanks, Bri. For that vote of confidence.”

“Harry,” she turns her attention away from Louis without dignifying that with a reply. “Tell me you tried to convince him to actually contact someone who knows a freaking thing about children.”

Harry looks amused. “It was just a fever, Briana.”

“Yeah, just the life of my only child. No big. I shouldn’t have expected the two of you to understand.”

Louis rolls his eyes. “Good to see you would have been even more irrational than me in the situation.”

“We’re such great parents,” Bri agrees, and they grin at each other.

Thus ends Louis’ first experience with Poppy being sick. Well, she doesn’t properly lose the fever until that evening, but it’s a manageable temperature, just her body killing the last of whatever bug she has. The scariest bit is over though — and Louis certainly doesn’t miss it. He’s glad Harry was there to keep him sane. Except...except that’s the thing.

Louis’ not so sure as to whether Harry might actually be doing the opposite, lately.

_Took too long, honestly, before I didn’t have any feelings for you at all._

Louis still feels sort of weird about that. And — well, he doesn’t really want to think about why, but he does. And he feels like something maybe shifted, in the subtleties of his and Harry's relationship, after last night...after their shared admissions about not wanting to break up, after spending the night breathing in Harry's scent and waking up alone.

He thinks about how much better things have been with Harry around, thinks about the way he looks in the morning (soft and rough and blinking in the light) and the way his arm feels, brushing against Louis' when they sit side-by-side and watch telly. He thinks about this, and pushes it all away when he feels the resulting twinge of fear. But it gets harder to push away.

Like many things throughout his life, though, it’s not till he’s had the pleasure of being slapped (in this case metaphorically but oftentimes otherwise) over the head by his little sister that he really stops denying it.

“Lou, you’re an absolute twat,” Lottie tells him honestly, (though not about Harry — not yet, at least.)

“Aw, thanks, Lotts,” Louis coos, throwing his arm round her shoulder as she shuts the car door and puts on her seatbelt. “Good to see you too. How was the flight?”

“You haven’t visited in fucking ages. You think we have the time to just fly to L.A.? I’m an auntie now. I’ve got duties. How am I supposed to shower my niece in gifts and be the cool auntie if I can barely ever see her?”

“I mean,” Louis shrugs, pulling out of the airport car-park. “It’s not like any of her other aunties are ever in L.A., either. So. You’re still pretty safe.”

She looks contemplative. “I dunno, I think Fizzy’s planning some big stuff, come Christmas. You _are_ coming back for Christmas, right? Cause if you —”

“Christ, Lottie, of course I’m coming back for Christmas,” Louis’ a little offended. “You think I’m gonna miss out on Phoebe and Daisy jumping on my stomach to wake me up? Highlight of the year.”

“Hm,” Lottie studies him, and then shrugs. “I guess you would have to be mad to give up Mum’s Christmas biscuits.”

“Damn straight,” Louis nods. “So, let’s hear it then. How’s uni going?”

“Oh, you know. Everybody worships at my feet, they’re all ‘Louis who?’, same old, same old.”

“Uh huh, I have no trouble believing that at all.”

She punches him in the shoulder. “Wanker. But _I_ wanna know what being a dad’s like. Feel old, yet? Got any sleep at all lately?”

“Nope. I’m a walking, talking, caffeine machine.”

Lottie nods. “Sounds a lot like uni, then.”

He snorts, reaching over to ruffle her hair, despite her vocal protests. “You know I think I might have missed you, sis.”

She rolls her eyes, stubbornly re-doing her hair with one hand. “Wow, imagine that.”

“Imagine that, indeed,” he shakes his head. “I told you Harry’s staying with me and Bri, then?”

She looks surprised. “Harry? No, you didn’t.”

“Well,” Louis shrugs. “Yeah, he’s staying with us for a little while. Just while this whole media thing blows over.”

Lottie raises an eyebrow. “You’re combatting the media storm about how you and Harry used to date by having Harry stay with you? Did I blink and miss the logic in that?”

He rolls his eyes, shifting slightly. “Shut up. It’s...a long story.” Luckily, they’re just coming up to  Louis’ driveway, so he’s able to say, “I’ll tell you later."

Lottie purses her lips, but doesn’t really have much of a chance to complain. When they enter the house she spends a good ten minutes cooing at Poppy before she even properly acknowledges Briana and Harry, but they all hug which makes Louis pretty happy. He likes seeing people he cares about getting on. Anyway, then Lottie’s right back to Poppy, telling Louis he’s damn lucky she didn’t get his ears, which is uncalled for, honestly.

“See, this is why Fizz would be godmother,” Louis sniffs.

Lottie is outraged. “Bullshit! I’m the oldest! I should be godmother!”

“I mean, she doesn’t have a godmother, but if she did. Yeah, it wouldn’t be you.”

That earns him a smack on the shoulder. “Then I guess I won’t give her this adorable little dress then, will I?”

Harry perks up. “You got her a dress? What does it look like?”

Briana rolls her eyes. “Honestly, you should have just gone ahead and bought Harry his own child to dress up.”

Harry nods. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Lottie laughs, and pulls out the tiny little dress from one of her bags. “Well, this is the dress. Bet you’re reconsidering who’s godmother now, huh, Lou?”

“For the last time, Lottie, no one is godmother.”

“But _why,”_ she pouts. “You’re only not doing it because you know you’d have to pick me and you don’t want to hurt Fizzy like that. But...by all means, hurt Fizz like that. I wanna be godmother!”

Louis shakes his head, but takes the dress. “It _is_ sweet,” he admits, reluctant. Lottie beams, and he sighs. “Maybe you can be honorary godmother.”

“Aha!”

“You realise I’m gonna go ahead and make all the others honorary godmother, too, now.”

_“What?_ Lou, come on. I’d be so much better at it than Fizzy. And Daisy and Phoebe are, like, 6 years old, practically. Don’t even get me started on Doris.”

“What, and you’re so much more mature?”

“Exactly!”

He has to stop himself from continuing to argue at this point, knowing full well he and Lottie could go all night and not wanting to spend the first time he sees his little sister in ages bickering like they’re still at home playing tug-of-war with the remote.

“Do you want a cup of tea?” he asks instead, and mum would be so proud that he’s learnt to let an argument go.

Lottie raises one eyebrow. “I’ll take mine with a side of godparent-ship, thanks, Lou.”

“Oh for _Christ’s —”_

She breaks and laughs. “Yeah, alright, I’d love a cup of tea."

Louis rolls his eyes as he puts the kettle on. It’s been honestly ages since he last saw Lottie — she’d been down looking at a uni when he visited his mum and the others a couple months back, and then obviously he’s been in L.A. ever since. It’s really kind of weird, having not been around his sisters and mum pretty much ever since the X Factor and everything kicked off — especially with Daisy and Phoebe, who seem to shoot up dramatically every time he looks away — so he’s glad Lottie could find the time to actually visit. She’s had a long flight so they just spend the rest of the evening eating pasta and watching TV whilst Lottie regales them with tales of late-teenage life, and then Harry tells some long-winded story about his old neighbour that Louis ferociously mocks him for, but the next day he’s planning on some serious Sibling Bonding Time.

Which, apparently, consists of going and getting some lunch and having Lottie flagrantly insult his choice of footwear, but Louis supposes, through a mouthful of burger, that this is probably as good as he’s gonna get. He then takes her with him when he goes to drop off the signed papers for some A&R stuff, meaning she has to wait for a few minutes in the impressive looking lounge section of the building — decked out in way too much cream to be practical, textbook demonstration of wealth — and see him shake hands with a couple flashy guys in suits and unnecessarily expensive sunglasses. He has no problem admitting to himself that he’s 100% doing it to make her think he’s actually, like, doing stuff with his life...which he is, but it just so happens that at the moment more often than not he’s just in tracksuit bottoms playing peek-a-boo with a six month old baby. When he comes back out, though, she’s just slumped over scrolling through something on her phone, seemingly unmoved by the huge fish tank on the wall or awards littering the shelves, and calls him a git for making her wait. It’s actually kind of a comforting reminder that his little sister couldn’t give a flying fuck what he’s doing these days.

“So, what now? You gonna buy me some frozen yoghurt?” she asks, stretching.

Louis scoffs. “Uh, I’ll get you some ice cream, if you want, but there’s no way I’m endorsing the sale of frozen yoghurt, honestly.”

She snorts, rolling her eyes as they step into the lift. “Sometimes I wonder at the fact you and Harry can work.”

He opens his mouth to retort, but then frowns, turning to look at her. “Wait, what?”

“I dunno, you guys just seem to differ on a lot of important issues. Namely...food.”

“No...uh...what?”

Now Lottie’s looking confused. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘can work’?” He asks, slowly. He’s gotta be reading this wrong, surely. “You mean, like, as friends?”

Lottie stares at him, and then giggles a little. “Louis... _what?_ Oh, was I not supposed to pick up on it? You think you were being subtle? Last night was like...98% the two of you flirting while Briana and I rolled our eyes.”

Louis’ sort of gobsmacked, to be honest, and he’s not really sure how to react when the lift doors _ping_ open and the two of them spill out into the lobby. Lottie laughs again, probably this time at the expression on his face.

“Come on, Lou, it was cute. I’m, like, happy for you and stuff. I mean, you could’ve told me, but you’ve always been all embarrassed about Harry. Fizzy has this whole theory about how it’s cause the force of your feelings for him scare you, or something,” she grins, shaking her head. “She’s been reading a lot of romance novels, lately.”

“Uh,” Louis rubs the back of his neck as they walk out into the bright sunshine of the street. “Lottie, Harry and I aren’t dating.”

She frowns at him, and stops walking. “Wait, seriously?”

_“No._ We broke up, like, ages ago. You _know_ that.”

“Well,” she blinks, and shrugs. “Yeah, but. I dunno. You didn’t want to, did you? And then you never got any closure. And...I dunno. You and Harry kept on acting like a couple.”

“Yeah, but...we weren’t one?” Louis is super confused.

“I _know_ that. But with this whole picture resurfacing thing, and then suddenly you’re _living together_ , I kind of assumed that,” she snorts, waving her arms around. “The _passion had been rekindled_ , or something. I dunno. I’m just the little sister, what do I know.”

“Well…” Louis cannot believe he’s having this conversation with his sister in broad daylight in the middle of the street. “Well, it, uh, it wasn’t. Rekindled. Uh. Why the hell are you talking like that?”

Lottie just laughs. “Plus, the whole —” she puts on a faux deep voice, which sounds exactly nothing like him, _“‘It’s a long story, I’ll tell you later,’_ thing, and all the uncomfortable shifting you did. I was all, ‘what is this, a rom-com?’ and then we get back to yours and you and Harry, like, make moony-eyes at each other, as per usual, and I just assumed you’d come to your senses and started dating him again.”

“Okay, Lottie, in the future how about you just...don’t make any stupid assumptions about me and Harry.”

She’s still giggling at him, but makes a show of becoming serious. “Come on, Lou, you can’t honestly tell me you’re not in love with him!”

Louis squirms. “I’m...I’m not, okay? We’re just, I dunno—”

“Two super, 100% straight (well, not _100%)_ guy bros who just sit and be dudes together?” she suggests, wry.

Louis’ fast lost control of this conversation. He does his best to glare at her, unamused. “You know I’m not gonna get you any ice cream, now.”

“Oh, whatever will I do?”

*******

Lottie assuming he and Harry had resumed dating is something Louis fast adds to his Not To Think About pile, but it’s sort of hard to ignore. (And that’s not even because of Lottie’s various but pointed eyebrow-wiggling.)

Thing is, Louis has been feeling all weird and different about Harry for a little while. And it’s maybe been sneaking up on him. And his insides maybe swoop when Harry smiles at him, all wide and dimpling, over supper. And — shit. Everything that’s been building up inside ever since Harry _got here,_ damn, is suddenly pressing against his walls, and he can’t — this isn’t — _fuck._

He grabs Lottie later that night as she’s coming out the bathroom after brushing her teeth, and drags her into the room she’s sleeping in.

“I’m not in love with Harry,” he insists, hushed, the moment the door’s closed behind them, and he’s seriously panicking. Lottie stares at him, and snorts.

“Yeah, okay, Lou.”

“No, I’m _not_ in love with Harry. I can’t be in love with Harry. Do you know how good it felt when I realised I was over him? I’m not in love with Harry. You know he does yoga? How lame is that? Extremely lame, that’s how lame, which is reason number bajillion-and-one I’m not in love with him.”

He’s, uh, maybe rambling a bit. Lottie’s eyes have gone sympathetic, and he hates that.

“Louis—”

“Don’t you dare say some bullshit like ‘it’s alright’,” he warns. “Don’t you dare, Charlotte!”

She sighs. _“Louis._ You’re being an absolute prick, you know that? What’s wrong with being in love with him?”

“I dunno, seeing as I’m _not.”_

“Oh yeah? Well how come you get some big dopey smile on your face when he says something you like? How come you were so head-over-heels for him last time? Please don’t make me continue to analyse your relationship, Lou, you’re my big brother and I don’t want to be thinking about how much you clearly want to have little babies with Harry, and decorate your shared love-nest in tones of pink.”

“I — uh,” he feels his resolve crumbling. “Shit.”

“Yup.”

Louis, with a decent amount of sheepish embarrassment, thinks about how back in 2010 he'd imagined what it'd be like once he and Harry actually kissed, how he’d thought that when they did it would be just like how Harry talked: slow and syrupy, mumbling sweet nonsense into Louis' mouth. (It hadn't been, obviously, because first kisses don't work like that. Instead, it had been awkward and nervous and bumbling and the best thing ever _ever,_ and Louis had been breathless and utterly mad about him even as their teeth clashed.) He thinks about what kissing Harry now might be like.

“Shit.”

Lottie nods, sage, and she’s gonna be giving him shit about this for the rest of his life. “Please leave so I can sleep, now.”

“Right,” he does, in a bit of a daze. He’s in love with Harry. Oh, God. He’s in love with Harry. Oh, God.

*******

It’s sort of...anticlimactic, after that. He went to bed _freaking out,_ and he wakes up — well, not calm, but. Not anything else, either.

He’s in love with Harry. It’s actually not that much of a surprise, now that he’s let it sink in. Because he’d already been in love with Harry once before, for a pretty long time, and it’d taken so long to get over him. Louis wonders if he even had, or if it had just faded into the background, easier to ignore once he and Harry had stopped talking so much, just the two of them. And then it had all come crashing back down once they spent too long in each other’s company, only Louis had mislabelled it as attraction. Or maybe Louis _had_ fallen out of love with Harry, for a while, like he’d tried so hard to back in 2012, but only to fall right back into it the moment he wasn’t looking. Either way, he’s here now.

So he’s strangely unflapped while he goes back downstairs and puts on the kettle, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It sort of feels like he’s spent so much goddamn time of his life loving or thinking about loving Harry Styles, that to fall right back into that is only natural.

Then, of course, Harry actually emerges from his room — dressed solely in boxer shorts, as per usual — and Louis’ no longer unflapped. Wholly Flapped, is perhaps the term instead.

“Morning, Lou,” Harry yawns, scratching absentmindedly at his bare chest. Apparently now that Louis’ realised he’s in love with him the proverbial floodgates of Cringey Thoughts have opened, because for one long, dazzling moment, all Louis can focus on is the sound of his own name, shortened and fond, in Harry’s deep, rumbling morning voice. Or: his deep, rumbling sex voice, which would be a more accurate description. (This is really just unfair.)

“Morning, Harry,” Louis responds, with only a moment’s pause. “Sleep alright?”

Harry shrugs. “Yeah, fine. Had a really weird dream, though,” he begins, pensive, before launching into a slightly rambling story as he rummages through the cupboards.

Louis supposes it’s probably a good sign in regards to his own sanity that, in love with him or not, he is still perfectly able to ridicule his dumb stories. The day that happened then truly, all would be lost.

He’s still teasing Harry, and enjoying the way his mouth curls up in response, when Lottie gets up, (decked out in a pair of ratty old pyjamas decorated with stars that make him sort of homesick), meaning he’s still half-grinning at Harry when Lottie gives him an exaggerated wink and thumbs up. He rues the day he ever admitted to missing her when she’s away.

“Morning, Lottie,” he sighs.

“Alright, Harry?” she greets in lieu of Louis, with a pointed grin.

“Hello, Lottie,” Harry says politely, wearing a slightly puzzled expression in response.

“Someone making breakfast? I’m starving.”

“What ever happened to manners of a guest?” Louis grumbles. “Mum not been bringing you up right while I’m gone?”

“Mum’s not here,” Lottie sticks her tongue out. “And I’m hungry.”

“I can make pancakes?” Harry offers. Louis has to avoid the urge to wail out loud about how lovely he is.

After that, thankfully, he’s able to ignore the whole ‘terrifyingly real emotions for your friend and ex’ thing for a little while, as Lottie’s catching a flight back to London that evening, her stay unfortunately short, so he focuses instead on his sister and making sure her last few hours in L.A. are enjoyable. But once she’s gone and it’s back to just Briana, Harry and him, things get slightly more difficult.

Because the thing is, being in love with Harry had been scary, at first, and then unsurprising, and then sort of amusing. But as the days go by, Louis’ reminded of why being in love with Harry had sucked so much in the first place — because he’s with him all the time, but he’s not actually _with_ him. And if being constantly attracted to him had been bad, then being constantly attracted to him plus knowing that he wants _more_ than just sex, is just...really depressing.

The small things are the worst. Like when Harry surprises him with a really good joke and he wants to beam and stand on his tiptoes to kiss him, or when he presses a mug of tea into Louis’ hand and he itches to run his thumb over Harry’s palm in thanks, or call him some sarcastic term of endearment that wouldn’t be sarcastic at all. In the mornings he wishes he could press up against Harry’s warmth and complain about being tired into his collarbone, all the while entwining their fingers and listening to Harry’s replying hum, and sometimes when they’re sitting on the sofa together he just wants to cuddle up to him, pat him approvingly on the head and make some teasing comment about his hair. Christ, Louis’ becoming _inconsolable._ They’re the sort of thoughts he would give Niall or Liam utter shit for having, and yet here he is wishing Harry would look at him like he used to, with wonder and amusement in his eyes and an indulgent curl to his mouth, and what’s worse is he’s wishing these things on the regular. It’s not just a one-off cringey sentiment, it’s a constant, relentless stream of longing to touch, to praise, of finding his mouth turned up into a fond smile and feeling his eyes crinkle, and there doesn’t seem to be an end in sight.

And what’s worse is that — for half a second, Louis almost starts to hope. Because he remembers what Bri had said, remembers Lottie’s assumption, and at the end of the day, Harry had felt that way once before, who’s to say that — ?

But there’s something different, about Harry. Louis’ not sure when it happened, whether it’s new or been going on for a little while now, but he seems less...at ease, around Louis. It’s subtle, of course, and Harry would never be rude about this sort of thing, but sometimes when Louis lets his touch linger too long he feels Harry stiffen, feels him shift and pull back. Or when Briana goes to bed early and leaves Harry and Louis alone on the sofa together, probably having ended up slightly entangled, Harry will clear his throat and announce that he’s going to bed, too. It almost feels like Harry purposely avoids touching Louis when he doesn’t have to — leaning just that extra bit away when they have to squeeze past each other in the gap between the table and the kitchen counter, placing anything down in front of him instead of handing it straight to him, etc, etc. It’s....Louis doesn’t want to jump to any conclusions, but it starts to feel....well.

He remembers the morning after they slept in the same bed. Remembers Harry acting weird, acting uncomfortable, and after Harry goes stiff for the millionth time when Louis presses a hand to his shoulder, Louis can’t stop convincing himself otherwise anymore.

He doesn’t know when Harry noticed — maybe it was after they slept in the same bed and Louis instinctively wrapped himself around him, or maybe he’d suspected it for a while and that’d been the last straw. Either way, at some point Harry must have noticed the way Louis looked at him, and put the pieces together. And now he’s uncomfortable in Louis’ presence, or he just doesn’t want to give him false hope, or, or _something_ — all that matters is that Harry _knows,_ and Harry’s not interested.

So Louis maybe wants to cry, or something dumb like that. Or punch a wall, maybe, that’s manlier. Mostly he wants to phone up Liam and be pitied, and then get drunk, and then have someone stroke his hair, but he also really doesn’t feel like having Liam say ‘I told you so’ right now, even if Liam did sort of tell him so. Stupid Liam.

Things only get worse from there.

Louis tries not to touch Harry too much, hesitant to freak him out or make him uncomfortable, which means he’s on edge like, all the time, because there’s never a moment where he _doesn’t_ want to touch Harry, to graze the curve of his shoulders with his knuckles or tug at a tendril of hair or kiss him stupid. And then there’s the fact that, like, Harry’s lovely. Honestly, it’s a problem. Because he just goes ahead and _does_ things, like pick up Louis’ baby and kiss her nose, or fall asleep on the sofa with his neck cricked at a weird angle and cushion creases pressed into his cheek, and it’s like some sort of sugary, domestic preview of what Louis could have had, of how happy they could be. For real, what idiot agreed to have Harry living with them?

Everywhere Louis turns it seems there’s Harry Styles playing ‘this little piggy’ with a baby, or stretching luxuriously in a loose t-shirt so a strip of skin is revealed, or singing loudly as he fries bacon in his boxers, and it just seems to build. All his frustration, all his sappy feelings, all his dumb moony-eyed staring and constant itch of being in _love_ , ugh, builds, until it can’t build anymore.

Until he’s walking past Harry’s room, and it starts to crumble instead.

_“Nick, I can’t just fly to London to go on a date,”_ Louis hears through the door. And he hates himself, really, he’s a creep with boundary issues, but he stops, and stands still, and eavesdrops, with his heart in his throat. _“—even if he does sound amazing...yes, and hot. And funny.”_

There’s a pause, and an indulgent sigh.

_“And perfect — I get it!”_ he huffs out a laugh. _“Yeah, I can see that, Nick. I just can’t jump ship and go to London just to go have dinner with someone. And what happens when — fine, if — I still…”_ he trails off, presumably listening to whatever Grimshaw says on the other side, before laughing with a sort of finality this time. _“It won’t. And I’m not gonna fly over to London just to do that anyway, alright?”_

Louis can’t...he shouldn’t be hearing this, really...but he can’t stop staring at the floorboards, at his own feet, can’t stop hearing the words ringing over and over again. _Amazing...and hot...and funny._

That was Harry describing someone, someone decidedly Not Louis. Someone that he’s romantically interested in, or — or thinks he could be, if he flew to London. If he was _free_ to fly to London.

Because he’s not, is he? He’s stuck with Louis and Briana and Poppy — stuck with an ex who’s still in love with him and eavesdrops outside his goddamn door, stuck in this damn agreement to ease things over so that he can come out...because Louis never told him that he’s fine now, has been for ages, because he kind of forgot that that’s why Harry’s here. That they’re not voluntarily living together.

And Harry could leave — should leave, even, if he wants — because it’s not like Louis cares, anymore, if he wants to come out, it’s not like Louis has any freaking _claim_ over him, or anything. Harry’s just too nice to say anything, to ask to leave, to do like he actually wants, _God,_ not just hide away in some empty old mansion in L.A. with a washed up popstar and the messed-up situation he’s found himself in, cooking meals and helping look after someone else’s baby. Louis can’t believe he actually forgot, for a little while, why Harry’s here, can’t believe he —

Harry’s door opens.

“Oh,” Harry blinks, surprised to find Louis standing and blinking fast like an idiot, just outside his room. “Hey, Louis.”

“Hey,” Louis croaks, before blurting out, “You...you can go, you know.”

There’s a pause while Harry stares at him. “What?”

“Like,” he shrugs, uncomfortable, and scuffs his shoes on the ground. “I mean. I just remembered, that. You know. You’re doing this so you can come out, and...I don’t have a problem with that, you know? I mean, I haven’t for ages now, I just...and you’ve been a massive help, obviously, to me and Bri, but. I don’t want you to feel like you have to hang around. So, yeah. You can go.”

“Oh,” Harry says. And then he frowns. “You — I don’t — oh.”

Louis feels like everything he says is just the most transparent thing anyone’s ever done, ever. And Harry’s still staring at him, with a little frown, and Louis feels _bare_. So he swallows. “And actually, I, uh. I sort of need to focus on a load of stuff now? And with so many people here, it’s sort of, you know, hectic…so...”

Harry looks taken aback, and — hurt? “What, so you’re just kicking me out?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. “I spend ages cooking for you and Bri and you turn around and ask me to leave the moment you’re bored of me, is that it?”

Oh, God, this is getting messy, and if Louis’ not careful then things could get a lot messier. He swallows, and _crap,_ why does this feel like he’s pulling out his own heart? “It’s not like that,” he mutters. “I just, I feel like you’ve been here so long, and it’s not fair to you. So, I really ought to let you go do your own thing, you know? Especially cause,” he clears his throat. “I got my own stuff to do now, so —”

“Why are you acting like this is some sort of favour you’re doing me?” Harry asks, lip curling. “You think you’re acting all magnanimous by ‘letting’ me leave? Like I’m, what, some sort of _servant?”_

And, oh, that’s not fair. Louis can feel himself start to get angry. “Come on, Harry, that’s not what I’m — ”

“You know I didn’t even have to try and get your fucking permission to come out!” Harry continues. “I was in the right there, I could have just turned around and come out anyway, your dumb insecurities be damned, but I _didn’t,_ because I thought — ”

“And I’m grateful for that!” Louis shouts, interrupting him. “That’s not what I’m saying!”

“Then what _are_ you saying?” Harry demands, nostrils flaring. “That I owed you this massive favour for my own fucking freedom to come out as bi when I damn well pleased? That you’re now — what? Mother bloody Teresa for allowing me to do so? For freeing me from the debt I owe you — isn’t _that_ what you’re saying, Louis?”

_“No!_ I’m just — I dunno — God, Harry, you’ve been here for ages, alright? It’s been weeks and weeks and —”

“Oh, yeah!” Harry snarls. “Such a huge inconvenience for you, huh? Me staying in your massive fucking house and feeding you actual food, doing actual fucking housework and acting like a goddamn _adult,_ because someone in this house has to. Such a pain in your neck, wasn’t it, Louis! To have me cleaning up after your mess and making sure your baby doesn’t die, _no big.”_

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Harry!” Louis shouts. “No one _asked_ you to do all that, alright? You were the one who turned up here and started making breakfast and practically _begged_ me to let you help around! I never asked you to! So you can’t turn around and start acting all victimised and used when _you_ were the one, not me, who started doing all this!”

“What?” Harry scoffs. “Like I wasn’t obligated to? Like you’d have ever let me —”

_“Obligated?”_ Louis repeats, fuming. “You weren’t obligated to do anything! Christ, what sort of argument even _is_ that? Obligated? You’re not my goddamn _boyfriend_ , Harry!"

There’s this moment, then, that Louis thinks feels vividly, wildly dangerous between them, a drawn-out, thickening second where Harry's face is white and furious, his fists clenched and the threat of something in his eyes, and Louis feels his throat go tight with anticipation, feels for one long, impossible moment that what Harry is about to say is — is —

But it isn't, because the fight drains out of Harry's features slowly, leaving his pinched mouth until he seems only tired, and he lowers his gaze to the ground.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice rough. "I didn't mean to — didn't want to make you — I'm sorry if I overstepped, Lou. You know I just wanted to help."

"Yeah," Louis swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. And isn't that the problem.

Harry leaves, after that. It's nothing but awkward, watching him pack up his things and hug Briana goodbye, all the while smiling and saying he understands, insisting it's fine and joking about how he's overstayed his welcome, and all Louis can think is how he hasn't. How it's the complete opposite.

Then Harry turns his attention to Poppy, blinking up at him and yawning from Bri's arms. He smiles, a little, and reaches forward to stroke her cheek.

(Louis’ entire heart feels like it’s stopped working. Just up and froze, right at that second.)

“Hey,” Harry murmurs, soft. “Don’t go getting anymore scary fevers, alright?”

Poppy blinks up at him, as unmoved as a baby can be, but Briana smiles, and lifts up one of Poppy’s pudgy little arms into a wave.

_“I won’t,”_ she chirps, pretending. _“Bye-bye, uncle Harry!”_

Harry laughs, and Louis — just — can’t. This entire thing is too much. His throat feels tight and his heart feels heavy and he just wishes Harry would go already, so maybe he could have a chance to actually _breathe._

Except...except then Harry does leave, with one last smile at Louis, and he doesn’t feel like he can breathe at all, actually, and it all happened so fast that he just doesn’t know what to think, except — except for maybe, _oh._

*******

Louis walks up the steps to his room in a sort of daze, after that. Briana wanted to know what happened, obviously, confused and a little accusing, but Louis just — can’t, right now. He can’t believe he just asked Harry to leave, had just felt all sad and conflicted and upset, but now everything’s worse. Everything’s just...so, so much worse.

There’s Harry’s empty room. But it’s not Harry’s room, because it was never Harry’s room, because it’s a guest room. And Harry was just a temporary guest. Louis feels sort of queasy, continuing to stare at it, so he shakes himself out of it and keeps on walking to his own room, shutting the door behind him and letting out a shaky breath.

God, he feels like shit. Maybe everything would have been better if he’d just never realised he was in love with Harry, if he’d kept living in denial and half-baked contentment. But he hadn’t. He‘d had to go along and figure it out, and start pining and act like a fucking child and upend everything. He’s moping, he’s aware, completely irrational, but everything just feels awful, and then —

It’s stupid, he knows that, just one of those moments where you’re upset about one thing so everything else just feels terrible, he _knows_ , but that doesn’t change the fact that he turns and sees, sitting on his dresser, the photo of the five of them at their _This Is Us_ premiere. They’re all grinning and on top of the world, decked out in fancy outfits and with Zayn right there along with them, and it’s so, so stupid, because Louis’ _happy_ with his life, and where he is right now. But just then, just for a moment, looking into the beaming face of his younger self riding the crest of their career, Louis can’t help but crumple.

Because everything’s _different_ now, and it’s no longer just the five of them against the world, and it felt like it lasted just for one fleeting, amazing second, only to end. Because now Zayn’s gone, and the fame’s slipping, and they’re all on a break that he doesn’t know will ever end, and Louis has a child and responsibilities and he’s just gone and kicked Harry out because he’s head over _fucking_ heels in love with him and — oh, God.

Louis’ standing there staring at this old picture of the five of them like the world’s falling apart, and he knows it’s stupid but he also know that right now, with everything ending and nothing certain, it just...it just feels like the worst thing that’s ever happened to him, even if it isn’t.

He lets out a rough breath, blinking hard against the stubborn threat of tears, and runs a hand over his face. _Christ._ His mind may be exaggerating everything, but he sure as hell does feel like shit.

Which is why he just, needs to talk to someone. And maybe it’s because he’s been staring at a picture from 2013, or just because he doesn’t want to face Liam or Briana’s ‘I told you so’ attitude, but for whatever reason, he finds himself phoning Zayn.

It rings for quite a while, before Zayn answers with a tentative, “Uh, hello?”

“Zayn,” Louis lets out a sigh. “Hey, mate.”

It’s probably pretty surprising for Zayn, getting a phone call from Louis out of the blue. Things have been kind of...rocky, after what happened last year, even if they technically made up, and they don’t really talk much anymore. Still, Louis maybe sort of missed him.

“Hey,” Zayn replies, sounding indeed confused. “You alright?”

This is something he’s always liked about Zayn — he cuts to the chase. Louis swallows. “I kind of did something stupid,” he confesses.

Zayn hmms. “Stupid how?”

“Stupid like...falling in love with Harry?”

There’s a pause, and then a sigh. “Mate, _again?”_

Louis laughs, but it’s wet and sort of pathetic.

“I’m not sure I ever really fell out of it?” he admits, lowering his eyes to the floor. “Or, or if I did, it didn’t take much to fall back in.”

Zayn makes a noise like a shrug. “I mean, it was always gonna be Harry for you, wasn’t it? Even at the beginning, you were arse over tits.”

“Yeah,” Louis sighs. “‘M not sure this is helping, Z; I’m depressed enough as it is. Don’t want to be thinking about how I’ve always been an idiot who falls in love with the wrong person, do I?”

“I dunno,” Zayn’s probably doing that dumb little frown. “You sure Harry doesn’t...?”

“I’m sure.” Louis makes sure his voice is firm, fighting a wobble, because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to live through more false hope. “Look, I don’t really want to talk about it, if I’m honest. I just — it really sucks. So. Wanna tell me something distracting?”

Zayn makes a small, grudgingly amused noise. “Yeah, alright.”

They talk for a long while, after that, catching up and clearing the air, and Louis almost finds himself forgetting why he was so upset in the first place.

It doesn’t last long, of course. It feels like everywhere around the house there’s a reminder of Harry — some dumb trinket left on a shelf, a post-it note on the fridge reminding them to buy actual vegetables, the confusing but neat way he’d rearranged the cupboard room. Louis still has those pictures of Poppy in the Green Bay Packers uniform on his phone, still has half a mind to remark things to Harry, turns to make jokes for his benefit whilst watching TV — but of course Harry isn’t there anymore. Louis can’t help but imagine him back in London, going on that date and laughing and grinning and dropping his voice down low to murmur something inappropriate in the other person’s ear.

He scrolls through his contacts on his phone and stares at Harry’s name, biting his lip. The thought of Harry actually going on that date makes him so, so angry, the bite of it thrumming under his skin and curling his fingers, so that he wants to scream and shout and make someone hurt. Except — except under all that is guilt. Guilt, because he has no right to feel angry, because he has no claim over Harry, and it all just makes him feel sick. Makes him feel jealous and petty and sad, and worst of all is that he doesn’t know where the two of them stand. He itches to call Harry, to say _something_ — but he doesn’t know what he’d say, isn’t even sure whether he wants to hear Harry’s voice right now, a reminder of everything he craves.

Louis stares at the contact for a few more moments, and then locks his phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want, you can find me on [tumblr](http://thatsbyronic.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

Harry hates his place in London. It’s too stifling, too different, too clean and empty. It doesn’t matter that he’d loved it once, loved its position in the city, its big windows and its ratty old sofa that would almost make him forget he was famous. He’d spent ages picking out art for it, had purposely made it feel slightly more lived-in than his other places through strategic placing of dumb, sentimental knick knacks and photos haphazardly pinned to the fridge, and he’d especially loved his old, kitsch table light in the sitting room. But none of that matters, now, because he’s the only one who lives there — and there is an entire ocean between it and the place he really wants to be. God, nothing feels right anymore: not his house, not his heart, and certainly not his relationship with Louis.

He sits down hard on one of his kitchen chairs, dropping his head into his hands as the sounds of city life and birds tweeting outside his window drill into his hangover. His mouth feels dry, and his head hurts, and most of all he wishes Louis were here to fondly call him a twat as he gives him a paracetamol.

But Louis’ not. He...well, Harry isn’t even all that sure what happened between Louis and him before he left. The most likely explanation is that Louis realised that Harry was clearly, pathetically in love with him, but Harry doesn’t want to think about that. Doesn’t want to imagine Louis feeling so uncomfortable with the thought of Harry’s feelings that he kicked him out — it’s hard enough remembering the time he spent at Louis’ anyway (soft morning light, Louis in big jumpers holding a small child, waking up with him pressed to Harry’s back and his breath snuffling into Harry’s neck). Never mind remembering it with the knowledge that, at least towards the end, Louis had been feeling creeped out and ill at ease in his own home. The thought makes him feel ill.

So then maybe Louis did just want Harry to leave out of a mixture of some guilt complex and a desire for more space in his house. (Somehow, he doesn’t believe it.)

Either way, it’s been a strange few days back in London — the air and the city is so different that there isn’t a second where he can’t remember how things ended. And even his house feels wrong.

Harry lets out a sigh, and pulls out his phone. He types, _Hey, we alright? x_ , into the box in Louis’ chat, changes his mind and deletes the ‘x’, and presses send. He has to push down the part of him that wants to cry at the sight of his last message to Louis, a teasing comment about the extortionate amount of milk he has in his tea, and a mocking reminder of how much simpler everything had been only a few days ago.

By the time he’s out of the shower (but still feeling like shit), Louis’ replied.

_yh, harry, were alright :)_

Harry stares at it, worrying his lip, and wonders why he doesn’t feel any better. He sends a cursory ‘I’m glad’, and tells himself to stop obsessing over every little thing Louis does.

It’s just hard, getting accustomed to his new (old) life back in London. He shows up to one of his meetings looking like shit, hair gross and pulled haphazardly into a bun, and wonders if the heartbreak is clear on his face.

Because he’s realising, now, that that’s what he’s feeling. It’s not immediately obvious, because he’s not down on his knees sobbing every second of the day, but he thinks that might be because it wasn’t some huge mess of the plaster being ripped off — he and Louis fought, yes, and it hurt (Christ, it hurt) to be asked to leave like that, but the actual leaving was calm. It was polite and estranged, and he made his lips turn up into a smile that stung before finally walking out the door, so there was no big moment where Harry had his heart torn out of his chest and his ribs slowly snapped, except for maybe the moment when Louis turned strange eyes on him and told him he could go. It was more of a slow, creeping off feeling, a half lump in his throat and a tremor in his fingers as he drove himself to his own L.A. house to pack and get a plane, and an intrinsic emptiness inside of him as he sat on the long flight and watched the view below become obscured with clouds, thick and damp.

But it’s heartbreak. It’s heartbreak that has him dissatisfied at any and all activity, makes him wake up in the middle of the night because he thought he heard Poppy crying, has him staring emptily at his television and feeling an ache behind his eyes. It’s just that it doesn’t materialise in the form of constant, utter grief — it’s the lack thereof, the lack of anything, anything at all, except this pulse inside of him that tells him this isn’t his home, that these aren’t the people he really wants to be around.

No one does seem to notice his heartbreak, as well. Well, no one that matters — Nick does, obviously, and Jeff’s always phoning to check up — but the colleagues, the people in stiff shirts who survey him from round the tables, and the businesslike recording people who wave their hands and critique his methods, they seem to have no idea. Harry can’t understand it; he looks at them out of dead eyes and wants to ask, wants to cry at them _how can you not tell? how can you not see I’m hardly here anymore?_ — but he doesn’t. He just nods and shrugs and tries to say something charmingly evasive when they scold him for having wasted so much time in L.A., because what is there to say, really? He’s heartbroken over nothing. He and Louis haven’t dated in years, and Harry can’t even sit here and miss holding or kissing him, because he can hardly even remember what that felt like, anymore. The last month they spent together was nothing, really, in the grand scheme of things, not to Louis. And if Harry had thought — well, he’d been deluded, that’s for sure.

So there’s nothing to be done, not really, except get on with his life.

***

Four months later, Harry is shivering on the steps of the National Gallery. There isn’t a leaf on a tree in sight, and every person in his vicinity is wrapped up in scarves and hats and gloves, hordes of them milling about the huge Christmas tree or watching the street performers pretending to be statues, their visible breath the only thing giving them away. He’s just thrusting his hands into his deep coat pockets to warm up his fingers among the tiny balls of lint, when he hears a baby crying. It should be nothing out of the ordinary, not in the size of the crowd one finds in Trafalgar Square one and a half weeks before Christmas, except — except.

Except this baby's cries are familiar. So familiar, that for a moment he can't breathe, mind jolted back to waking up in the middle of the night and helping warm up Poppy’s milk, blinking sleep out of his eyes, or hushing her as the late afternoon light streamed through the kitchen window. His fingers tingle with the need to pick her up and soothe her, a picture of her scrunched and pink face clear in his mind's eye. (And with her, an image of her father with his face uncharacteristically soft, fringe falling into his eyes and arms cradled around her.)

It can't be Poppy. It can't be — it isn't. Harry's standing in the middle of London and has just spent the last 20 minutes staring intently at a rack of postcards in the National Gallery gift shop because he couldn’t decide what to buy. It just can't be Poppy.

And yet — and yet, it sounds like her. God, Harry hasn't heard Poppy crying or seen Louis in practically half a bloody year, there's no way he has an accurate memory of what she sounds like crying, but he's _certain_ , completely certain that it's her.

Somehow, for whatever reason, Poppy is somewhere in that crowd of people. And she's still crying.

He feels the slow prickle of fear begin on the back of his neck, and soon his mind is running a million miles a minute with images of Poppy alone, separated somehow from Louis or Briana and crying to herself in the middle of a big, busy crowd — why is she still _crying?_ How did she get lost? She'll be almost a year old, now, can babies walk then? She could already crawl when he left, or shuffle, it doesn't seem too farfetched. All he really knows is she's somewhere in that crowd...and before he knows it he's running down the steps, coat flapping and cold air biting at his nose and ears, pressing into the thrum of people and searching, craning his neck.

He must be going crazy — it's the only explanation, as he pushes past more and more people, heart racing and faces blurring as he spins, catching the occasional snatch of ' _is that Harry Styles?'_

But he can't stop, not when he can still hear her, because every time she stops and Harry pauses and decides he's really, genuinely lost it, gone clinically insane before the age of 30, she starts up again, screaming and bawling and sounding so _lost_ that it tugs relentlessly at his heart _._ The noise of her crying is getting closer and closer, and Harry is so sure, so so sure that any second now, anywhere he turns, he'll see little Poppy and pick her up and stop her crying, and everything seems to get faster and faster as he turns this way and that, searching and blinking and getting closer with every second, she must be just behind these people, just behind these — and — and —

— and it isn't her. The young mum shoots him a weird look as he stares, struck silent, at the little unfamiliar toddler that's squirming in her arms, mouth open and screaming. The mother looks tired, hair out of place and nose pink from the cold, as she bounces her child up and down and murmurs soothing things in a weary, slightly cracked voice. Harry looks away.

It wasn't Poppy. He's a complete idiot, God, he can feel his knees shake as his hopes come crashing down and he lowers his gaze to the ground and runs a numb hand through his hair. Of course it wasn't Poppy — her and Louis live in L.A., still, and Harry's just the nutcase who got too attached.

He feels sort of empty, actually, now that all the emotions that raced through him and spiked his blood are gone, now that he realises he fucked it all up and tripped over himself the first chance he got, eager and pathetic and longing to see them again. So much for promising Gemma, promising himself that he'd move on, stop moping and get over him. Louis' not interested, Poppy isn't his, and Harry is supposed to be getting better at this. He can’t believe that after four months of telling himself he was getting better, he was over Louis, he finds himself just as hopelessly gone for him as ever, just as sad over the memories. His eyes sting a little, from the sudden lack inside of him, or from the wind he isn't sure, but he knows he can't just stand here shellshocked forever. Maybe he should go buy a croissant from _Pret_ , maybe he should go get rip-roaring drunk and get over himself.

The croissant is the easiest and most practical out of those options, and he supposes he could do with some tea to breathe feeling back into his frozen fingers, so he takes in one last deep breath and tells the last shred of flagging hope inside of him that he was wrong, that it wasn't her. But before he can take a step, someone says his name, hushed and surprised.

"Harry?"

Harry freezes. That…that can’t be who he thinks it is. His neck must be prickling under the gaze of someone _else,_ not the person he’s been missing and longing for these last four months. Not them, not here, not after he just accepted they couldn’t be. He almost doesn’t want to turn around, doesn’t want to raise his hopes seconds after they smashed into the ground and shattered. But then they say his name again, and he can’t put off turning anymore.

“Louis,” he says, voice catching in his throat, face twisting. Louis looks so stupidly beautiful, is the thing, with his soft hair blowing in the wind and his cheekbones as cut as ever, neck sheltered behind a thick scarf and a not-so-little baby in his arms. Harry can’t bring himself to say anything more, words beyond him at the sight standing in front of him, surely some sort of illusion. Poppy’s wearing a thick woollen hat with ears on it, and her cheeks are scarlet from the cold.

“Hi,” Louis replies, and his voice is contrastingly gentle to their surroundings.

“What are you doing here?” Harry forces himself to ask. All he wants to do is bundle Louis up in his arms and press his icy fingers to his warm skin, murmur something about how he missed him or tickle until he’s breathless with laughter. God, it’s been a while, and Harry’d forgotten the special kind of torture that comes from standing, so close to someone he wants so badly it scares him, and being unable to do anything but blink sluggishly and ache.

Louis shrugs, but it seems everything except casual. “It’s Christmas, ennit? Thought I’d show Poppy the tree. Buy some last minute presents for the girls before I go up back home.”

Right, of course Louis’ back in the UK for Christmas. Maybe Harry should have prepared himself for that possibility, although he’d never have imagined bumping into him in a crowd in Trafalgar Square like some sort of low-grade romantic comedy. Harry nods in response to Louis’ words, because that’s how human interaction works, and then finds himself blurting out, like an idiot,

“Was Poppy crying just now? By any chance?”

Louis looks surprised, entirely understandably, but answers. “Uh, yeah, she was. Bit too cold, I think, isn’t that right, sweetie?”

_So I wasn’t going insane._ Harry blinks, relieved, and almost misses when Poppy frowns and says, “cold,” in this tiny, baby voice, mouth forming a pout around the words. For a moment, Harry forgets every item of his emotional baggage.

“Oh my God!” he gasps, beaming at her and Louis and her again. “She can talk! She spoke!”

Louis laughs, even as Poppy shies away from Harry’s excitement. “Yeah,” he agrees, smiling fondly. “Not much, but she doesn’t like the cold, huh, Poppet?”

“Cold,” Poppy says obediently, although she’s surveying Harry with uncertainty from where she’s bundled in Louis’ arms and several coats. Coming from her, the word sounds more like ‘coal’. (It’s adorable.)

“What was her first word?” Harry wants to know — wants to know all of it, actually, feels irrationally upset that he missed such a milestone in Poppy’s life. She’s 11 months old, now, it makes sense that she would have developed quickly while he wasn’t there to see it, but that doesn’t make Harry feel any better about it.

“More,” Louis tells him, with a real satisfied grin. “She wanted more roast potatoes. Chip off the ol’ block, eh?”

Harry laughs again, although this time it’s tinged with sadness. He would have loved to see that, see Louis’ no doubt ecstatic reaction. “Now that I can believe,” he says, and smiles down at Poppy. It seems she doesn’t remember him at all.

“How—how have you been?” Louis asks, tentatively.

_Awful._ “Alright,” he answers, shrugging. “You know...it’s, uh,” he can’t even think of anything to say, can’t even pull up one anecdote to tell him, even though he’s spent four whole months doing things, hard as that is to believe. Harry frantically reminds himself he is a famous person credited for being charming, although it’s very difficult to remember why at moments like this. “I’d missed London, you know? It’s pretty great to be back.”

He almost feels ill, it’s so not true; London’s arguably his favourite city, yes, and maybe he’d missed aspects of it — but it isn’t great to be back. Not like this.

Louis makes a small noise, and glances away from Harry, before checking his watch. “Right, of course, yeah. Well... I should really get going, Harry,” he says, awkwardly. The whole thing feels wrong.

“Right,” Harry agrees. “Yeah. Stuff to buy, I guess?”

“Exactly,” Louis offers a threadbare smile. “See you around, then.”

It’s horrifically stilted, and awkward, and uncomfortable. And all the same, Harry can’t really believe that he survived four entire months without Louis, not when his feelings feel just as raw and profound and constant as ever, not now he’s just seen again firsthand how Louis’ eyes crinkle when he laughs, how gently he holds his daughter. Sometimes, he wonders whether he doesn’t put Louis up on some sort of pedestal, whether he’s more in love with the idea of him rather than actually him. But it’s moments like these, as Louis tries to swap Poppy from one hand to the other, drops his phone, and starts swearing made-up words now that his daughter is learning to talk, that make Harry feel certain his feelings are real.

And then of course the moment Harry’s huffed out the beginnings of a laugh and picked up his phone for him, Louis shoots him a distracted smile, says thanks, and leaves, walking off through the square.

Harry feels, deep in his bones, that they won't see each other again for months on end, and his throat goes tight.

Except for that Louis calls, late that night. His name lights up Harry’s phone as it vibrates, surprising and confusing, and Harry answers with fingers and a pulse that shake. He’s not sure why Louis would be phoning when the last message in their chat is still that pathetic 'I'm glad' that makes Harry sick to think about.

"Hello?" he answers, voice hoarse like he'd just woken up, even though he's been awake for hours and hours.

"Briana and Poppy are moving out," Louis says without greeting. His voice doesn't falter, but Harry imagines it like an old window pane, whole but riddled with cracks; one only has to exert the right pressure, and it shatters.

"Oh," Harry says, because he doesn't know what else there is to say. He's staring at his own reflection in the dark glass of his sitting room window, sees his features turn lax and useless with surprise.

"I mean, it was only ever supposed to be a temporary agreement, anyway," Louis continues. Harry imagines him determinedly picking at some thread in his jeans. "You know, while Poppy was young, so Bri could actually get some sleep. And I knew it was never gonna last, you know? It's not like I can stay behind and look after Poppy on my own at the moment, and Bri's hardly gonna want to be saddled living platonically with me for the rest of her life. To be honest we're kind of too similar to live and not kill each other, anyway. Like, I knew all this, from the beginning; kind of expected them to move out before this point, actually. But — well,” he pauses, and his next words are twisted with what’s supposed to be humour. “I kind of ended up attached.”

Harry ignores the voice in his mind that’s demanding, desperately, _‘why, why are you telling me this?’_, because he knows why — he’s pretty much the only other person who knows what it’s like to live with Poppy and then leave. If that reason isn’t the one he wants to be, then...well. That’s not important right now.

“When?” he asks instead, sitting down.

“After I get back. ‘S why I get to have Poppy for Christmas,” Louis swallows, hard down the fizzling connection, and if it wasn't for the fact that he has an infant in his care and would never, _ever_ do that, Harry might have thought he'd been drinking.

“I’m sorry, Lou,” he says, uselessly, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He can’t imagine what it would be like to be in Louis’ position right now. “But, you’ll still see her, you know?”

“‘S not the bloody same though, is it, Harry?” Louis snaps, before letting out a breath. “Sorry. I just.”

“Yeah,” Harry’s voice, famously monotone, feels completely ineffectual and unsympathetic at this sort of thing. Before he can think better of it, he’s asking, “Do you want me to, like, come over, or something?”

Immediately, he’s filled with horror and conviction that this is approximately the _last_ thing Louis wants, but before he can clear his throat and cover it up, somehow, Louis’ agreeing.

“Yeah, alright. That might be— might be good.”

Hope blossoms, stark and vibrant inside of him, until he remembers himself and stamps it out, because he shouldn’t make it like that — Louis’ upset. And he doesn’t feel that way, anyway. It's something he has to repeat to himself in his head for the rest of the short phone call: _Louis doesn't feel that way. Don't make this about you._

Harry still drives over to Louis’ with a weird sense of anticipation in the pit of his stomach, though. The way the shadows play over the dashboard and the streetlights stand tall and commanding over the roads make it feel secret, like he’s driving over to Louis’ to drink wine and kiss the resulting stain off his mouth, to wake up the next morning and watch the rise and fall of his ribcage before quietly getting dressed. Even the thought makes him feel guilty, because Louis' over there feeling shit about not being able to see his daughter everyday anymore, and here Harry is driving over to offer comfort with thoughts of some illicit affair playing over and over in his mind, so he does his best to stamp any thoughts like that out, making sure he’s in a better frame of mind when he tentatively rings Louis’ doorbell.

“Hey,” he says, when Louis opens the door. The word comes out all quiet and somber, and Louis flicks his eyes across Harry’s face before sighing.

“Yeah, alright, I’m not _dying,_ Styles.”

Harry’s mouth quirks. “Shame, that.”

“Dickhead,” Louis replies, with a fond roll of the eyes that sends a lick of warmth down Harry’s spine. He steps inside so Harry can come in. “You want tea or summat?”

“Nah, I’m alright.”

Louis shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

They sit down on the sofa, then, and despite the simple chatter that always seems to come relatively easily between them, Harry finds himself doubting anything he might say, second-guessing what Louis might be okay with. The awkwardness builds until Louis huffs out a sort of laugh.

“Some comfort this is, Harold. You not even gonna ask me if I wanna talk about it?”

Harry looks down and pushes the corners of his mouth into a slight smile even though Louis’ tone doesn’t quite achieve joking. “Alright,” he agrees. “Wanna talk about it?”

Louis taps his chin. “Nah, I’m alright.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at him, and he grins a little before it fades.

“Fine, yeah, maybe,” Louis shrugs. “It’s just...like…” he shrugs again, looking uncomfortable, before running a hand through his hair so it stands up all dumb and tufty. “I mean, how am I supposed to feel? I’m not going to see my daughter as much anymore. That’s got to suck for anyone, you know?”

Harry can feel the way his brows draw together, the downturn of his lips, and the way none of it does anything. “Yeah,” he agrees, softly.

“And — and I’m probably gonna miss all her, like, milestones, you know? Even if I see her on the weekends, or something...which I won’t _even,_ because my career means I’m not gonna be in L.A. for every single weekend...but even if I _did_ I wouldn’t see her most of the week, and I’d probably miss it all.”

“Louis, you can — ”

“Yeah, I get it. There’s technology and phones and bloody facetime and all that, but it’s not the _same,_ is it?” He raises his hand, and then drops it again, snorting out a bitter little noise. “I just. I don’t know, Harry. Babies grow up so fast, you know? I’ve been here for her first shuffle, and her first word, but who’s to say that I’ll be there for her first steps? Her first full sentence? Maybe I’ll be there for the stuff you know’s coming, like her first day at school and her birthdays, but the stuff you can’t predict, how am I...how am I supposed to know when that’s coming? Maybe Bri’ll film it, but that’s not the fucking same. And,” he huffs out a breath. “God, I feel like a shit for saying it, but most likely...I mean what’re the chances I’ll be able to make it to every single one of her birthdays? I’m damn sure gonna try, but what if I just can’t? What about when she has recitals and features in assemblies and it’s not enough forewarning for her big-shot dad? What then? I’ll have to just...just miss them.”

Louis’ gesturing with his hands, now, body language growing more and more agitated, and for a moment he turns and meets Harry’s gaze with wide, conflicted eyes. “And that just fucking sucks, Harry. Doesn’t it? And,” he looks away, drawing in a breath. “And what’s _Poppy_ gonna think, huh? What’s she gonna think when she grows up and wants to know where her dad is all the time? That I picked my job and my fame over her? Because she’ll be right — won’t she? She’ll be right.”

“Louis,” Harry gets out, chest feeling tight. “No, hey, _no._ It’s not like that, alright? I mean, for starters you and Briana aren’t even together, so you wouldn’t live — ”

“Yeah, I get that, Harry,” Louis interrupts, expression twisted. “But...I dunno. Feels like a right cop-out, doesn’t it? Real convenient. Gives me a perfect excuse to fuck off and tour the world while she grows up with only a mum. Real _fucking_ convenient.”

_“No,_ ” Harry says, with more force this time. “Look, Lou, maybe she will think things like that for, like, a _second,_ sometimes, but for no more than that, okay? Because you _will_ be there whenever you can, and I know that for a fact because I know you and I know what you’re like with her. And any person who spends more than a moment in the same room as you when you’re being a big loving father will have no doubt about your priorities — even having her and Briana living with you for the first eleven months of her life is more than most guys in your situation, okay? And that’s another thing: it’s not like Bri isn’t gonna be an amazing mum, is it? And growing up with only one immediate parent isn’t the worst thing in the world, I mean —”

“That’s the thing though, Harry, isn’t it? I know exactly what it’s like to grow up in Poppy’s situation. And I love my mum, but I can’t pretend that it didn’t fucking _suck_ sometimes, not to have a dad.”

“But she _will_ have a dad, Louis,” Harry disagrees, fiercely, reaching out to grab his wrist. “Okay? Look at me. She will have a dad, and a great one who clearly loves her enough to feel this torn up over nothing. I mean, I’ve seen you with her, and I know you’re an amazing dad — and even if you can’t see her as much as you want, she’s gonna know you love her lots and lots, alright? And maybe it’ll be hard but that won’t matter at the end of the day, Louis, as long as she knows that. And she will know that, because you’re an amazing father, okay? She _will.”_

Harry lets out a breath, eyes still intent and determined to convince Louis, almost daring him to contradict, and the words feel cheesy and stupid and ineffectual, but then Louis’ looking right back at him with his eyes wide and vulnerable, apparently searching for the certainty Harry’s trying to convey. So Harry does his best to look right back and show him, show him how much he’s sure that Louis won’t fuck this up, how much faith he has in him.

And then the world sort of feels like it stops spinning — for one frayed, dazzling moment that’s moment and lifetime enough — for one moment where Louis runs a hand through his hair, swallows hard, still looking at Harry, and then just reaches forward to kiss him. To kiss him like it’s simple, like it’s something they do, these days — like it isn’t earth-shattering and confusing and doesn’t send a bolt of electricity down Harry’s spine that makes him gasp against Louis’ mouth, makes him lost and delirious and starstruck. Instinct seizes him, has him raising his hand with the half-formed intent to clutch the back of Louis’ neck, fingers digging into the soft hair there, to pull him closer and closer with gasping drags of his mouth and...and... _God…_

...except that he stops himself. Because the image of Louis’ eyes, stubbornly self-deprecating and chokingly sad is still there, imprinted in the back of Harry’s mind, and he _can’t_ , not like this. Not while Louis’ feeling like this.

So, instead, he moves his hand to Louis’ shoulder and pushes him away, gently, even if it kills a little part of him to do so, to push away the one person he’s wanted all these years. And he takes a breath, and licks his lips, and whispers, like a plea for him to understand, _“Louis..."_

But the moment he’s done it, the moment he’s pushed Louis away, he realises it’s a mistake. Because Louis’ eyes — so wide and open just seconds before — shutter closed, and his mouth tightens, and he looks away.

“Sorry, I,” he grits out, and then stands. “Sorry about that. I’m — just — I’m tired, yeah?” He’s still not looking at Harry, and Harry can’t get up quick enough to take his arm and assure him. His mind is running a mile-a-minute, tripping over the fact that _Louis just kissed him_ and what that could mean and what would be best; it’s hard to focus on anything, but if he’s ever going to pay attention to something, it’s going to be Louis. He swallows around the confusion in his throat and wraps his fingers around Louis’ wrist, searching for some semblance of calm and of assurance.

“Louis, hey, I just — ” but Louis pulls his arm out of Harry’s grip.

“Maybe you should go, Harry,” he says, more firmly than his last half-sentence, eyes still fixed on the floor. “In fact — yeah. You should go.”

Harry feels panic set in in his stomach. _God, I’ve made a mistake. “Louis._ I just don’t think right — ”

_“Alright?_ We’re done. Big help, thanks a million, I’ll never be sad again, yada yada, you can _leave.”_

“Louis, you’re not listening to me!” Harry tries to grab his arm again. “It’s just, you’re not yourself right now, and I don’t think — ”

“Exactly,” Louis agrees blindly, viciously. “I’m not _myself_ right now, so you can go ahead and leave. Okay, Harry? Kindly get the fuck out of my house.”

“Louis we need to _talk_ about this,” Harry tries instead, desperate, his lips still tingling from Louis’ kiss. “I just don’t think that right now is — ”

Suddenly, Louis’ looking him dead in the eye again, so hard and so quickly it’s disconcerting. “What part of _get out_ do you not understand here, Harry? Huh? It’s been a long fucking night and I just want to go to bed and be alone so please, _leave.”_

“Louis — ”

_“Just get out!”_ Louis shouts, loud and raw and with pain breaking through onto his face. Harry flinches. In the other room, Poppy begins to cry, and Louis closes his eyes, pressing his hands to his temples. “Great,” he mutters. “See what you’ve done? Please, just...please just leave.”

There’s a long pause in the wake of that, long enough that the dread and the resignation and the hurt in Harry’s stomach have formed a nasty ball of anxiety, and the sight of Louis standing there with his hands cradling his head and Poppy screaming in the background is enough. Enough to convince Harry that maybe he should...maybe he should just go. He can talk to Louis tomorrow, after all.

“Okay,” he says softly, giving in. He sort of feels like crying, all of a sudden. “And I’m...I’m sorry. I’ll...I’ll go.”

Louis doesn’t say anything in return. Harry lets himself out.

***

Harry calls Louis six separate times throughout the next day before he picks up. He’s been reliving the moment from the previous night over and over in his mind, trying to confirm for himself whether he’s right in interpreting it, whether Louis actually has feelings for him, or whether it was just a spur of the moment thing. His reaction would imply feelings — or — or perhaps not? Harry keeps going back and suddenly doubting it, afraid of what Louis might say, but he can’t deny to himself that Louis _kissed_ him, and then had a reaction like that when Harry pushed him away...they need to talk. So he phones six different times, each time with his heart in his throat, and still isn’t ready for when Louis actually picks up.

“Harry, I’m trying to fucking drive to Doncaster, what _is it?”_ he snaps, sounding pissed. “I don’t appreciate having a new bloody missed call everytime I pause in traffic.”

Harry swallows, ignoring the ball of nerves in his stomach. “We need to talk about last night.”

“Oh for _fuck’s_ sake,” Louis scoffs, and Harry can almost hear his eye-roll. “I knew you were gonna be all stubborn and noble about this. It’s nothing, alright? I was sad and tired and you were there. That’s all.”

They’re the words Harry’s been sort of expecting, but also dreading. He tells himself he doesn’t believe it, but there's always going to be a part of him that whispers _he means it._

"Come on, Louis," he tries. "You don't — "

“Do I need to spell it out for you?” Louis snarls. “It was a _mistake,_ alright? You don’t have to make such a big deal about me doing something stupid while I was feeling shit! I am _fine._ It was just a slip-up into old habits. It was late, and I was sad, and you were there, so I did something stupid. That’s literally _it.”_

_It was a mistake. It was a mistake._ The words ricochet around in Harry’s mind, taunting him, and it becomes harder and harder to think clearly, but this is _Louis,_ and he can’t just give up on this. Not when Louis’ driving to Doncaster and then he’ll be going back to L.A. and he might not see him again for months. Not when Harry’s this stupidly, chokingly in love with him. So he sets his jaw, and says,

“I don’t believe you.”

There’s a pause, and then an incredulous laugh. “You don’t _believe_ me?” Louis repeats, words like acid. “Wow, Harry. You really are being modest here, huh? Who’d have thought you actually are this cocky. I mean,” he laughs. “You honestly believe just because I used someone in front of me for some short-lived pleasure that I’m — what? I’m in love with them? Because that’s a whole new level of arrogant twat, Harry. Really, just. Wow.”

Harry feels like his throat’s closed up. Any certainty he’d held onto just...slips away in the face of Louis’ words and splintered tone, and he can’t even find enough coherency in his thoughts to make a reply, so he just stands there with his phone held to his ear as Louis finishes up the call.

“I’m going to go now, if that’s _okay_ with you. Don’t call me again.”

And then he’s just...gone. And Harry’s pressing ‘end call’ on autopilot, and swallowing, and not knowing what to think. Maybe he had just read everything wrong...maybe he’d been so eager for Louis to reciprocate his feelings that he’d completely jumped the gun, fooled himself into seeing things that weren’t there. God, when’s he going to _learn?_ It’s been months and months of being in love with no gain and no glimpse of any hope in the future; why does he keep deluding himself? Why can’t he just _get over_ Louis? He really is a fucking idiot. Maybe he should have just kissed Louis back — it wouldn’t have led anywhere, Louis’ been pretty clear about that — but at least he’d have been able to pretend for a few more moments, at least he’d have something to actually fixate on, not just years of nothing and half-forgotten memories of what it had been like to actually have him. But then — no, it would have been worse, wouldn’t it? To have gotten a taste of Louis now, to fall right back into what it was like and to actually hold him and feel his mouth moving against his own, to suck on his tongue and hear him emit little breathy noises, only to go right back to nothing, would have been more than he could have handled.

So Harry made the right call, then. But he doesn’t feel any better about it.

Christ, he needs to get drunk. He doesn’t go out so much anymore — not in that clubbing-till-4am sort of way he used to be so partial to, but at that moment it’s sort of all he wants. To lose control a little bit and get drunk and dance with someone and forget all about a certain person, even just for a little while, sounds absolutely fucking ideal right now. It’s an absolutely awful idea, because he knows it won’t even work, but he sort of finds that he doesn’t care. He just wants to wash away the feeling of Louis kissing him, even if it was barely there, that’s still so prevalent. Just wants to wake up reeking of alcohol and fuzzy-mouthed, because maybe he’ll be able to focus on that, instead.

It’s an absolutely awful idea, but he does it anyway. Goes to a club and drinks and smirks and sways in the odd, fractured light. And the next morning, when he wakes up, he isn’t alone.

The other person isn’t what wakes him, though. What wakes him is, he realises through an absolutely dead mind and influx of sluggish thoughts, the repeated dinging of his phone, so he presses a hand against his eyes and grabs it, blinking through encrusted eyes. There are a couple of missed calls from management he happily ignores for the minute, and then a message from Louis that he stares at with an entire lack of understanding for several slow, confused seconds. Then the person next to him makes a noise in their sleep, and horror sets deep in his bones.

_U had fun last night then._

The message is so understated and so _bitter_ that Harry just — _no._ How does he...? _Why_ would he…? God...please, no. It’s with shaking fingers and decidedly more consciousness that Harry sits up and goes on to safari, silently praying even as he knows what he’s going to encounter, even as he googles his own name.

The headlines are sickening. Crude, mortifying, bordering on homophobic.

The pictures, though — the pictures are the worst. Despite dingy lighting, they all unmistakably show Harry leaving some club, his hair disheveled and his eyes glassy, and some guy with a swollen mouth hanging off his arm. Even if the same guy weren’t asleep next to him now and memories of darkened fumbling weren’t creeping in, there would be no doubt from the pictures where things were headed.

Oh, God. Harry’s ribs feel too small for the sudden, all-consuming panic that takes over him, because — Christ, at Louis’ reaction, who is he kidding anymore? That’s not the reaction of someone who just happened to kiss the person nearest to them, that’s the reaction of someone who cares and — and Harry’s just gone and thrown it all _away._ He’s such an _idiot._ God, why did he — what was he — _God._

It’s all he can do to rush to the loo before he’s throwing up, clutching the toilet bowl with white knuckles and deep, burning regret. What the fuck was he _thinking?_ He can’t stop imagining Louis waking up at his mum’s house in Doncaster and seeing the papers — seeing Harry with someone else. God, did his face register the shock? Did he say anything to his family? Or just...just buckle and send that one, transparent text he probably immediately regretted. Harry is so, so in love with him, and he’s completely thrown it away. The sick burns his throat, and his head throbs, and his heart aches.

The person in his bed — Harry doesn’t even remember his name, _fuck —_ sits up, tentatively calling in to ask if Harry’s okay. His voice is wrecked and so absolutely, unbelievably not what Harry wants to hear right now.

“Yeah,” Harry manages to get out, even if it’s so far from the truth it’s not even funny — with everything hurting and the world getting smaller and smaller. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. Um,” he falters, weakly getting off the bathroom floor, and leans against the doorway to run a hand over his face and sigh at the guy. “I’m sorry. You’re kind of in the papers.”

He barely registers the guy’s reaction, actually, too busy being riddled with self-hate and left-over alcohol to pay more than apparent attention. He just wishes the guy would leave, just wants to be alone and wallow and call Louis and _hope, please,_ that he hasn’t actually fucked it up beyond repair. God, it’s been _years,_ he can’t have gotten this close to actually having what he wants only to lose it.

The guy leaves, eventually, or maybe he didn’t even stay very long, it’s hard to tell. Harry doesn’t even see him to the door, already sinking back to the floor and desperately pressing Louis’ name on his phone, listening to it go straight to voicemail and trying again and again.

_“Louis, hey, please pick up. Or — or don’t, I don’t know. Just. Please. You have to understand that I didn’t mean it, that I’m sorry. Please, please call me back. I need to talk to you. I just — I’m sorry. Please call me back.”_

It’s pathetic, and ineffectual, and he just knows Louis isn’t going to call him back. He doesn’t know how he can recover this, not with Louis in Doncaster and him in London, not with pictures of him about to fuck some stranger splashed across all the tabloids; he just wishes he could go back in time and reverse it, just wishes he could somehow crawl into the floor and never have to face the light of day again. Why won’t Louis pick up his damn _phone._

But hours pass, and there’s no reply, and Harry can do nothing but ignore the news and feel sick to his stomach.

To make matters even worse, his reputation gets completely dragged through the mud. Harry can barely bring himself to care, but he can’t completely ignore how badly he’s getting trashed. Over the following couple of days the media have a fucking field day, with all this shit about how he’s supposed to be a role model, how he’s setting a disgusting example for all the people looking up to him, how it’s indecent and crude and poor taste. It makes him kind of pissed that he’s been painted as a womanizer for years on end and nobody’s batted an eyelid, but the moment he has relatively obvious sex with a guy he’s letting down a generation of impressionable preteens, but he kind of can’t bring himself to care that much about what people think of him right now. He just wants _Louis_ to understand — fuck the rest of them.

Career-wise, though, this isn’t a particularly wise strategy, so of course Modest! rope him into doing an interview about it. It’s some chat show he’s never really watched, never really cared about, and it’s fair to say he’s far from enthusiastic, fair to say he just wants to stay at home and feel sad. Send string after desperate string of texts to Louis.

He doesn’t really have a choice, though. So he has to sit through makeup for far too long, watching his own sallow face reflected back get gradually covered up in makeup, hiding the bags under his eyes but not the stubborn sad tilt to his mouth, and practises making his eyes light up convincingly enough by trying to make the makeup artist laugh. He’s not sure if it works.

“Like we went over,” some woman with an earpiece reminds him, pursing her lips. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, irritated that she feels the need to ask him that every few moments. He’s done a million interviews before, and he may be — well. He’ll be fine, is the point. There’s only one topic of discussion that’s making him antsy, but it doesn’t matter. He has to do it, and he will.

“On in just a few seconds,” the woman reminds him, turning her attention away. Harry can hear the chat show’s host addressing the camera and audience, voice faint and fake, and wonders if anyone told him their name.

_“Please welcome our first guest, Harry Styles!”_

There’s the sound of rambunctious applause, a few whoops, and then he’s walking out of the wings and onto the stage, blinking in the bright lights and grinning, despite himself, at the audience. If there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s go on stage, so he waves and winks at the crowd and walks over to the sofa feeling slightly better about himself — he can do this, he just has to bullshit a couple questions and charm the audience; it’s something he’s done time and time again. (And when that topic comes up...he’ll think of something.)

And, sure enough, the interview starts off fine. The show is relatively small, as management had had to book him in somewhere last minute and so close to Christmas, but the host is better than he expected, with a seemingly genuine laugh, and the first bit of the interview is just chatting. Harry does his best to seem at ease, and the audience are relatively into it. As for the people watching at home — well, that’s in the abstract, and Harry learnt a long time ago that with live interviews it’s best not to think about that sort of thing.

Then, the host moves onto the first agreed upon questions — nothing Harry didn’t know was coming but still a little awkward, to discuss these sorts of things in front of a crowd. He’d released a statement earlier on in the year, not too soon after leaving Louis’, confirming his bisexuality, so the host asks about that first, talking about the presumed relief of coming out.

“I mean,” he swallows. “Yeah, yeah it’s good to be honest, you know? Been a long time coming, I guess. It was sort of daunting, when I was younger, to think about coming out, but I’m glad I have now, and I’m glad my fans can get a better sense of the real me.”

The host nods. “I’m sure, and it’s wonderful to hear that you’re in a better place to be able to come out, Harry. But, I’m afraid I’ve got to ask about something more awkward, now. I’m sure you’re aware that there’s been a bit of talk in the press of late, about some of your...excursions.”

Harry forces on a faint smile as the audience titter.

“And I want to ask, what would you say to that? Because some of these people are saying you’re letting your fans down, not being a good role model, nasty things like that. So, what would your reply be? Or would you have a reply?”

“Yeah, I mean,” he grimaces, rubbing the back of his neck. “I apologise if anyone got upset seeing those pictures, and it’s behaviour I’m not exactly proud of, you know. But,” he pauses, feels slightly sick at the memory of what some of his management team had said: _‘Maybe we can work this LGBT thing.’_ He wants to say this stuff anyway, doesn’t want to make it out about him. “I don’t know, I feel to some extent that the level of reaction to this isn’t all that justified? I mean, people have been papped like that in the past. I can’t help but wonder if there would have been the same reaction, if people would be saying these things, if I’d been papped with a girl. If I hadn’t just come out as bisexual.”

The host wears an entirely fake pensive expression, and makes a humming noise. “Well, I think you may well have a valid point there, Harry. Yes, there is a definite question to be asked, and brave of you to point out, I’d say.”

Harry doesn’t feel particularly brave, though he doubts the host cares, and the smattering of applause just makes him feel ill.

“Now,” the host continues. “I have to broach another awkward topic.”

Harry feels himself brace, almost subconsciously. He knows what the host is going to say, and he can feel his shirt get hot and itchy, feel the close press of the audience’s attention.

“I’m sure everyone in this room is aware of the picture that surfaced a few months ago…”

Modest! had also released a statement several months before about Louis and Harry, after Louis had eventually contacted them and confirmed he didn’t want to deny it, which acknowledged that they had been in a relationship early on in the band’s career, but concluded that it was long over and both Louis and Harry had moved on. All they need is Harry to reassert that statement. It should be fine. _Fine._ Yet Harry’s palms are sweating, and he feels his heartbeat pick up, and the lights just seem to get brighter and brighter.

“...a picture of you and your bandmate, Louis.” The host offers an expectant pause, and raises one eyebrow the tiniest bit.

God, Harry would have been able to deal with this so much better at literally _any_ other time of his life. He clears his throat, and nods.

“Yeah.”

The host was obviously expecting more from him, but after a small pause continues obligingly. “And I’m sure we all know that that picture showed the two of you, uh, kissing. And that you released a statement confirming that you and Louis had dated in the past, is that correct?”

Images of Louis back in 2011, smiling at Harry and stroking the insides of his wrists, threaten to overtake him. There’s the memory of hushed giggling and words whispered into his ear, waking up wrapped up in his warmth, and then more recently — Louis’ steady gaze as he leaned in to kiss him.

“That is correct,” Harry confirms faintly, and by some miracle his voice comes out fine.

“Now, what is really interesting about this is that, well, your fans actually noticed that you and Louis had been dating back then. Didn’t they? There was all that talk about ‘Larry Stylinson’, I believe,” the host chuckles. “Quite endearing, actually, that they knew you two enough to realise you were dating. And yet, yet the two of you — on multiple occasions — denied the claims, didn’t you?”

_Some people genuinely, seriously think that we’re in a relationship. Larry is the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard._

God, Harry had almost forgotten how much it had hurt to sit there and watch Louis deny them. He can still remember the angle of his vision, in one of those interviews, the slight smile on Louis’ face as he scoffed at the idea, the quiet, apologetic press of his fingers into Harry’s back. He remembers seeing that tweet, posted some months after they had broken up but before the feelings had really faded, remembers not really knowing what to do but swallow and quit twitter, tell himself it was for the best, that he and Louis had made the right decision. Remembers barely believing it, and yet not knowing what else to believe.

“Yeah, well,” he manages to get out. “I mean, we just weren’t ready to come out, you know? Uh,” _breathe, Harry, jesus._ “I mean, obviously neither Louis nor I wanted to lie to our fans, or hide our relationship…”

_Imagine if we could come out, what it would be like to tell everybody — could kiss you on stage, maybe._

_I can’t think like that, Harry._

“...but it’s just scary. Especially when you’re young. And it would have been a big commitment, too. Because,” and he falters, here, just for a moment, but he knows it’ll be moment enough to pick up. He can’t do anything except keep going. “—because we _did_ break up, in the end. And I think, I think maybe if we had come out, it would have made everything messier, maybe.”

_God, I don’t want to break up._

“And the fans would have been more involved in our relationship...it just,” he can barely think, anymore, can barely remind himself to keep breathing let alone _speak._ “I just think it would have been messier.”

It’s a lame finish, Harry can tell, but he can’t think of anything else to say, can’t think of anything but moving his stuff out of the flat, agreeing to finish things. They hadn’t kissed, at the end, had decided it would be too hard if they did — but he’d hugged Louis, and he’d done his best to choke down his tears and focus instead on this, on memorising the feel of him and the sensation of being this in love.

_This is it, I guess._

It had been so weird, because they’d continued being around each other after that, because they’d been in the same _band,_ and yet it had felt like goodbye. Like one of the hardest goodbyes of his goddamn life.

“I suppose it isn’t hard to understand why you might have wanted to keep it quiet,” the host agrees, and Harry barely knows what they’re talking about, anymore. “So — I have to ask, for the sake of the internet — so, there’s nothing between you? Between you and Louis, anymore?”

And — God, there’s a reason it was always Louis who denied their relationship, who did all the talking. Because Harry is so _bad_ at this, so bad at containing the emotion on his face, and he’s still so fucking in love with Louis, and he didn’t want to have to do this, anymore.

“Uh,” he stutters, not even looking at the host, just — just — just back in that club, with Louis pressing his forehead to his, breath fanning over his lips and fingers entwined. Back in Louis’ bedroom in L.A., watching him sigh in the dim lighting, lashes fluttering against his cheek as he admitted how hard it had been, to get over Harry. Back in Louis’ London sitting room, forcing himself to push him away when all he wanted to do was kiss him and kiss him and _kiss him_. “Uh.”

He thinks he maybe sees the woman with the ear-piece, standing at the edge of the stage with a look of frustration on her face, but he also doesn’t see anything except Louis crinkling his eyes into a laugh, or the edge of his shoulders painted silver in the midnight lighting as he drifted off to sleep, or the mop-top of his head cradled in Harry’s lap as some unimportant film played on and on.

“I…” when has it ever been this hard to get words out, when has it ever been this difficult to _breathe_. “Um, no.” He finally, finally gets the sound out, gets the images and the emotion under control, and he doesn’t feel any better at all. “No, there’s,” _say it, say it._ “—there’s nothing between Louis and I.”

_I’m in love with him, Niall._

“Not—not anymore.”

It’s transparent, and as the lights and the memories fade a little in Harry’s perspective, he notes the dead silence of the crowd. The uncertainty on the host’s face. And once again, the whole world can see immediately how pathetically, tragically gone he is.

“Um,” the host says. “Well that’s...that’s good to hear, I suppose. Uh.”

Harry’s a trainwreck. An embarrassing, horrific trainwreck, and he doesn’t even remember the rest of the interview, just stumbling off stage and not even blinking at the anger of his management team. Just running a hand over his face and tearing off his mic and fleeing, goddamn _fleeing_ to the bathroom — locking the door with shaking hands and gripping the cold enamel of the sink, his head dropping down and his breath coming in short bursts.

He can’t believe he just made that much of a fool of himself on TV. Not even a fool, though, it wasn’t some quirky, mildly-embarrassing behaviour, it was just _pathetic._ Just clearly, stupidly still hung-up on Louis, for the world to see. Harry swallows, and breathes, and doesn’t know where to go from here.

And then his phone rings.

It was on silent for the interview, but it buzzes insistently against his thigh in his pocket, and for one wild, insane moment Harry wants to ignore it, or throw it out the window or something equally stupid, but instead he takes it out and — and holy _shit,_ it’s Louis. It’s Louis calling him. Did — did he see? Did he watch? Harry can barely answer the phone.

“H-hello?”

“Harry,” Louis’ voice comes out fast and stilted. “Harry, what was…? What was that?”

Harry can hardly think, still, but he’s been trying to talk to Louis for days and he’s not gonna pass up this opportunity. “Louis, you gotta listen to me. The person — the thing in the papers, I...I didn’t — ”

“No, Harry, shut up,” Louis interrupts, and his voice sounds strange and distant. “What _was_ that? That interview? I...I don’t...why did you sound like…” he falters. “Why did you sound like…?”

“I’m in love with you.”

“Yeah. Why did you sound...like that?”

“No, Louis,” Harry twists his face up, feels his eyes pulse. “Louis, I’m in _love_ with you. That’s why.”

There’s a long, dead pause, during which Harry feels rooted to the ground and is aware of every movement of air around him. Then Louis makes a choked, half noise, and hangs up the phone.

Harry stares at his reflection in shock for a few moments, phone still clutched uselessly to his ear, before slowly lowering it. He isn’t sure what he expected. Of course Louis isn’t going to forget all about Harry sleeping with someone else just because he went and confessed his love like a hopeful idiot. Of course. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, though. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like he’s been kicked in the lungs.

There’s nothing really for Harry to do, though, except splash his face with water and go home. He can tell all his people who wanted him to smooth it all over want to yell at him, but don’t really know what do — he didn’t really do anything spectacularly wrong, just...just paused and looked sad. So Harry is able to leave, relatively quickly. There’s probably something in his face telling everybody that he doesn’t want to talk, isn’t in the mood for anything right now, but moping. He thinks about going home and drowning in eggnog, or just drowning point blank.

He gets texts from pretty much everyone, except Louis, offering support and asking if he’s okay. They pile up on his phone and with each one Harry feels like there’s another stone in his stomach, weighing him down and reminding him of how much everything _hurts,_ right now. And his mind keeps replaying that moment, standing under the artificial light in that studio toilet and listening to the click of Louis hanging up the phone on him, feeling his throat dry and cracking, and lowering his mobile. There’s nothing to do except curl up on his sofa and ignore the TV that steadily continues to play, feeling like absolute shit. Part of him wishes he’d never even met Louis, never fallen in love with him, but the worst part is he doesn’t even wish that. He’s so stupidly head over heels that he can’t even bring himself to imagine not having known Louis.

He must drift into some kind of sleep, at some point — he hasn’t slept very much the last few days, so it isn’t that surprising — and he never turned his phone back off silent, meaning it takes a while of it buzzing on the side table next to him before he drifts back into any sort of consciousness. Of course, the moment he realises what’s happening he’s blindly grabbing at his phone, confused and still half-asleep and fumbling, and he gets half a second, a flash of Louis’ name on the caller ID, before it must go to voicemail and his phone’s telling him instead that he has a missed call.

“No!” he stares at his phone, swearing loudly and sitting up, back killing him and a nasty crick in his neck. Frantically, he calls back, cannot believe he fucking _fell asleep_ and missed Louis phoning him, but there’s no answer, and he calls again and again and wonders if he should wait, if Louis’ trying to phone through but the line’s blocked, and he’s just staring at his phone screen and shaking and wondering if he’s missed his _one chance,_ Christ...when the doorbell rings.

Harry’s stomach feels like it’s dropped out of him onto the floor, and he can’t...it can’t be...could it? He stares at the space above the television, not moving and not thinking, for several long, dead seconds, before the doorbell rings again, longer this time, and he’s jolted out of it.

_It won’t be Louis._ He tells himself this as he makes himself walk, not run, to the door. _It won’t be Louis, it won’t be Louis._ His hand shakes on the lock, fingers almost not getting enough of a grip to twist, and it _won’t be Louis._

So of course it’s Louis.

It’s Louis standing there on his doormat with scruffed up hair and a big jumper and he looks like _shit,_ honestly, like he hasn’t slept and hasn’t lived for days. And it’s Louis who takes one look at him and looks like he wants to cry.

“You’re an idiot,” he chokes out. “If you’re in love with me...why did you sleep with someone else? What the _fuck,_ Harry?”

Harry just stares at him, because he just woke up and he feels like his heart has been through too much already and he can’t believe Louis is actually standing right in front of him. “What are you...I thought you were in Doncaster…?”

“Harry,” Louis scowls.

“God, right,” he blinks, shakes himself out of it. Or, tries to. “Louis...I...I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about that,” he can’t think, though, can’t stop staring at Louis and drinking him in, because he’d begun to think he wouldn’t see him again for who knows how long and it’s just...just really good, to be wrong about that. “God, I’m so in love with you.”

What is he even _saying?_ He watches with barely any coherence as Louis registers the words, as tears begin to leak out of his eyes.

“Stop _saying_ that,” Louis pleads. And Harry flinches, feels a jolt of horror and steps back, running a hand through his hair.

“Right,” he gets out, the words hardly there and his vision going dark at the edges. “Right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have — if you don’t — ”

“No, I mean,” Louis screws up his face, hands forming fists in his hair. “Stop saying that unless you mean it!”

And — and — what? How can Louis have any _doubt?_ How can he not see so clearly everything that Harry feels when he looks at him? Harry is aware of his face crumpling, of his mouth dropping open to gape at him. “Louis... _what?_ Mean it…? Of course I mean it, Lou,” God, he needs Louis to understand this, more than anything else in the world right now. “I... _Christ..._ you don’t know what it’s been like this past year, ever since — God, I can’t even…”

“Past year?” Louis frowns at him, gasping in a breath. “You mean, you…?”

“Ever since Poppy,” Harry admits, trying to calm his breathing, bringing his arms to himself and swallowing. “Since before, probably. Never stopped, maybe. Louis, I — you don’t understand how much I...what it’s like to — ”

“I do,” Louis interrupts, eyes vulnerable but suddenly determined. “I do understand, Harry.”

Harry’s breath catches. He can’t breathe, all of a sudden, and he can’t look away from the set of Louis’ mouth, not a hint of reluctance or insincerity. He’d maybe hoped — maybe started to believe — but none of that comes even _close_ to actually hearing it.

“You do?” he manages to get out, words breathy and hesitant and so completely, utterly not enough to convey everything he feels right now, all the hope and confusion and fear. Louis’ still looking right back at him. “So, what you said…?” he doesn’t even want to finish the thought.

Louis shakes his head, lets out a bitter little laugh that’s not funny at all. “Why’d you have to go and sleep with someone _else?”_ he asks instead, helpless, and his voice shakes like Harry hasn’t heard in years, young and fragile and uncertain.

“Lou…” Harry doesn’t know what to say to convey how chokingly, horrifically sorry he is. He opens his mouth anyway, searching and desperate. “I was drunk; I know it doesn’t excuse it, God, I know, but it’s all I’ve _got._ I was hurt, okay? I just...I didn’t know what to think.”

Louis doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, eyes searching Harry’s, and then he lets out a breath. “I didn’t mean what I said,” he admits. “About the kiss. I was...I was hurting too, and...I was afraid you didn’t — ”

“I do,” Harry can’t get it out quick enough, desperate and irrationally afraid that if he doesn’t let Louis know right now how he feels, he’ll lose his nerve. “Christ, Louis, I nearly cried on TV because of you,” he lets out a wet laugh.

“Yeah,” Louis offers a wry, tired smile. “I saw.”

For a long moment, then, they can only stand and look at each other. Harry can’t quite believe they’ve been through so much. They fell in love at the worst possible time, probably, the first time — what little bliss they’d had had been short-lived: quick kisses before getting out of cars, whispered confessions on a tour bus, eyes meeting as they sang words meant for someone else. They’d had to hide, and then they’d had to break up, and then they’d fallen out of sync and out of love. And on top of it all Harry had been closeted and on every paper and never, ever out of scrutiny, and he hadn’t even had the quiet respite of a flat with his boyfriend. And years had passed. And he’d maybe learnt to hide more of himself, lost his naïvete and his energy and made mistakes and collapsed, but it’s still Louis that he wants — that’s the terrifying part. It’s been years, and he’s changed, but Louis’ still all he’s ever wanted. And now maybe...maybe. He swallows a great, stuttering, breath of air, and watches as Louis does the same.

“So, does this mean?” Harry makes a small, aborted gesture. “If you feel, I mean,” it almost feels like if he finishes the sentence he’ll somehow jinx everything, and he can barely get the words out to continue. “Can we…?”

“I’m in love with you, too,” Louis breathes out, quiet and no real answer, but his words and his hesitant smile are answer enough.

Harry lets out a laugh, then, weak and woozy and stupid in love with him, and it’s all he can do to get out a, _“God, finally,”_ before he’s pulled Louis against him, warm and heady, and is kissing him like he hasn’t done in years.

***

Waking up the next morning is surreal. Harry can barely bring himself to open his eyes, having finally got what he always wanted, all warm and sated and with Louis pressed up against his back huffing tiny little sleepy breaths. The last time he woke up like this had been in L.A., only it had been so different because he’d been frozen in panic and so sure Louis hadn’t felt that way about him, so he’d done his best to get out of bed without waking him up, terrified of what Louis might see in his face. But now...now he doesn’t do anything but snuggle back further, only wishing they’d remembered to close the goddamn curtains because the light streaming into the room is bright and all-encompassing, and Harry would have enjoyed a little while more of contented sleep after a night of high-strung emotions followed by intense get-together sex.

(The memory makes him smirk a little.)

Still, Harry can’t help but think to himself that’s it’s decidedly apt that London in late December decided to be sunny on the one day he’s finally got Louis in his bed, all pliant and warm, and he imagines outside must be crisp and bright and cold, beautiful and making being under a big duvet right now all the better. Then, because Louis’ still asleep and he supposes someone has to do it, he shakes his head at his own ridiculousness, smiling slightly, and rolls over to press the tip of his nose against Louis’ collarbones and his _it is what it is_ tattoo. The movement must wake Louis, because his breathing changes and after a moment’s pause he hums, bringing his arms up around Harry and pressing his chin against the top of his head.

“Why is it so fucking _bright_ in here?” he grumbles, voice scratchy and lovely.

Harry chuckles. “Cause you forgot to close the curtains before jumping me?”

Louis makes a scoffing noise that huffs into Harry’s hair. “I did not _jump_ you. If anyone jumped anyone else it was you jumping me. Couldn’t keep your paws off.”

Harry looks pointedly up and puts on a dirty grin. “Guilty.”

That makes Louis laugh, bending his head down so their foreheads touch, and Harry brings them together into a close-mouthed kiss, which breaks apart when he can’t stop grinning.

“Did I mention that I’m in love with you?” he asks, prodding Louis’ side under the covers. Louis makes a contemplative noise.

“Might have mentioned it.”

Harry pouts.

“Yeah, alright,” Louis’ grumbling is seriously undermined by the smile on his face. “I may be in love with you too.”

“Hm,” Harry goes right back to grinning. “Good to hear it. I can’t believe…” he trails off, shaking his head and smiling, before pulling Louis into another kiss. Just as it’s beginning to heat up, Louis pulls back slightly, and pauses.

“Um,” he clears his throat. “Can we, like...talk?”

Harry stares at him, and nods with his heart in his throat, only Louis must see the sudden terror on his face because he rolls his eyes and snorts.

“Not like that, you knob, just…” he shrugs. “I guess we should talk about some stuff.”

Harry feels relief flood through him, and grins sheepishly. “Right, yeah. Sorry.”

Louis smirks. “Afraid I’m gonna run out on you now that I’ve gotten into your pants?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You’d been into my pants before this, Lou.”

Humming, Louis runs his fingers down Harry’s chest. “Look a bit different now, though, don’t you?”

Harry smirks. “Oh yeah? Improved, have I?”

Louis makes a contemplative noise. “Hm, mildly.”

Harry rolls his eyes, shifting up the bed so he’s looking down at Louis when he scoffs. _“Please._ 18 year old me? Got _nothing_ on 22 year old me.”

Louis laughs. “Confident, are we?” but then he sits up and presses his mouth against Harry’s ear. “But just for the record — I’d want into your pants even if you _did_ get uglier.”

Harry lets out a great, cackling laugh, and wraps his limbs around him. “Aw, Lou, you say the _sweetest_ things.”

Louis shrugs, smiling, but looks slightly embarrassed when he mumbles, “Just want to make sure you know I’m not actually gonna run away, Haz.”

Harry feels all dumb and warm inside, and he tilts Louis’ head so he’s not shying away. “I love you.”

Louis smiles slowly, still looking faintly embarrassed, and shakes his head. “I love you too, you idiot. Now, before we rot our own teeth with this disgusting display of affection, can we _actually_ have this talk?”

Harry nods, and sits up so his back is resting against the headboard. “Anything specific you wanna begin with?”

Louis shrugs, and begins to fiddle with his fingers, tension leaking into his shoulders. “I just...I, uh...I gotta know something. Last night, you said…” he pauses, and pushes his brows together, lets out a huff of breath. “Just...c’mon. Tell me you haven’t been pining for me all this time, Harry. Tell me I haven’t been that much of an oblivious…”

Harry smiles, a little. It’s just cute, how concerned he is. “Nah, not for all of it, don’t worry. I...I guess I didn’t realise I still felt that way till last year, when Briana first got pregnant.” He laughs, slightly, nervous at saying this. “Just — I don’t know. Kinda felt like proof we weren’t actually gonna get back together, and...and maybe that I wanted us to get back together.”

Louis turns and meets his gaze, and his eyes are far too sad in Harry’s opinion. “I can’t believe you’ve felt like this since _last year,_ Haz, Jesus. I’m such an idiot.”

Harry tuts. "Oi, none of that. Maybe you were a bit of a prick, but we're here now. I wanna know when _you_ realised you were desperately in love with me."

Louis grins. "Hey, who said anything about _desperately?"_ but then clears his throat and sobers. "It was, uh, too late, actually. I was kind of far too oblivious for far too long. Not until Lottie visited, remember that?"

Harry frowns, grinning. "When _Lottie_ visited? What about your sister coming made you realise you were in love with me?"

Louis shrugs, looking sheepish. "I'd kind of labelled it all as just left-over lust, before that. But then Lottie assumed we were dating, and when I told her we weren't she said I was an idiot. And I guess she was right. Oh, and Briana had said some stuff, complaining about us staring at each other too much."

Harry laughs, at that. "She did? Well, can she blame me? I was living in my own domestic paradise, and you looked so cute half the time and so fuckable the other."

"Aw, Harry, you're just as charming as ever."

Harry shrugs. "But — wait, you and Bri talked about us? Damn, I had no idea. Although I guess I told Niall about being in love with you, so."

"Wait," Louis stares at him. _"Niall_ knew you were in love with me? Fuck, if I'd have just told him how I felt we'd have solved this months ago. Christ, and I spent all that time whining to Liam — clearly picked the wrong bandmate."

Harry grins. "Aw, you whined to Liam? Did you cry yourself to sleep every night? If I fly back to L.A. will I find a shrine to me in your wardrobe?"

Louis sniffs. "I'll admit to nothing. Bet you were inconsolable, though. Been in love with me for over a year, huh? How many rom-coms and buckets of ice cream did you burn through?"

Harry shrugs. "Don't know, but I'm pretty sure at this point if I never mentioned you again Nick would die happy."

Louis grins, but then shifts. “Wait, I, I wanna know something: towards the end you...I dunno. You started getting all tense whenever I touched you. I...I kinda assumed you’d realised how I felt, and were all uncomfortable, or something. I — ”

_“What?_ God,” Harry blinks at him. “No, of course that’s not how I felt. It’s...I’m not really sure. It wasn’t really a conscious reaction. I guess I was just so afraid that you’d see how I felt.”

Louis groans. “God, that’s so stupid. We were so stupid.”

“I wanna know why…” Harry pauses, swallows. “I wanna know why you asked me to leave?”

Louis grimaces. “Yeah...that’s. I’m sorry, Haz. I heard you on the phone, talking about going on a date. Kinda...dunno. Felt like I was holding you back, keeping you there out of some obligation. Panicked, a little bit.”

Harry stares at him. “Christ, you _are_ an idiot. Nick wanted me to go on a date to try and _get over you.”_

“Oh,” a small smile breaks out on Louis’ face. “Well, that’s good to know.”

Harry snorts. “This is all so ridiculous.”

“What about when I kissed you?” Louis asks. “Why’d you push me away? I thought you were rejecting me.”

Harry feels the smile slip off his face. “Yeah, I...I just didn’t want it to be like... I mean, you were so sad, Lou. It didn’t feel right. I couldn’t have been sure that you were doing it for the right reasons.”

Louis rolls his eyes, and takes Harry’s hand in his. “That’s so noble and stupid, Harry. If you’d just kissed me back we wouldn’t have gone through all this extra trouble.”

Harry frowns, turning to look Louis properly in the eye. “No, Louis — come on. I needed to be sure you weren’t just kissing me cause I was _there._ I’d been so in love with you for so long I couldn’t just kiss you on the off-chance you might be doing it cause you liked me back, not when I wasn’t sure of your emotional state. And...and maybe it didn’t work out all that well, for a little while, but...I don’t know. I’d probably do it again. Because I want to date you properly, Louis. I want to be sure you’re actually in this.”

Louis searches his eyes, and then slowly smiles. Harry smiles back, instinctively.

“What?”

“Just,” he shrugs, smirking. “That was seriously romantic. Got me swooning, Styles.”

Harry rolls his eyes, embarrassed despite himself. “Yeah, alright.”

“No, I mean it. Those were some proper quotable lines,” he drops his voice down low in a terrible mimic. _“‘I want to date you properly, Louis.’_ Honestly, I’m shaking a little. See these? Goosebumps.”

“Shut up,” Harry protests, groaning. “Here I am pouring my heart out and all I get is mockery.”

Louis grins at him. "Better get used to it. Hey — wanna hear something stupid?"

"What?"

"I wasn't gonna watch your interview. Can you imagine? I thought I'd be putting myself through unnecessary pain. Good thing I couldn't resist — guess I've always been sort of a masochist when it comes to you. And then..." he pauses, and the smile slips off his face. When he continues, it's quieter. "And then." He laughs, slightly, in a manner that isn't very funny. "God, Harry, it tore me apart watching that interview."

Harry feels his breath hitch, and he watches the way Louis' throat moves as he swallows.

"You just...looked so far away, even as you sat opposite that interviewer. And I couldn't help but think that...that..."

"I was just thinking about you," Harry tells him, softly. "Although I guess you could tell that."

Louis turns and looks at him, and turns the edges of his mouth up into a slight smile. "Yeah?"

"Yeah, Lou, of course you know that. Couldn't help but remember what it'd been like... breaking up, hiding, all of it. And recently — spending all that time with you, seeing you being all responsible with Poppy...you trying to kiss me. And then I'd just...just had to act like you didn't mean anything like that to me anymore. And I just...I couldn't do it. Not convincingly, at least."

Louis laughs, although it's slightly choked up. "You can say that again, you big sap. I doubt there's a person in the country who believed you, after that."

Harry smiles, softly. "I'm not sure I mind, anymore."

"I certainly don't. If you hadn't been so obvious...damn, I dunno. I'm just glad you were. And then I had to phone you, couldn't think straight, could barely see for hope, and you go ahead and just blurt out...well, blurt out that you're in love with me."

"And then you...hung up," Harry adds, frowning. "That wasn't...didn't feel too good when you did that, Lou."

Louis grimaces. "I know, I'm sorry. I just..." he shrugs, mouth still downturned. "Couldn't think, you know? It was a lot. And I just...I just needed to see you. Needed to be sure. So...well," he huffs out a slightly embarrassed laugh. "I kind of told mum to look after Poppy, and hopped on the next train to London."

"You did?" Harry asks, smirking. "Wow, and you called me romantic. That's straight out of a film, Lou."

Louis shrugs, smiling. "Yeah, well. And I turned up near tears on your doorstep and all, huh?"

"Drama queen," Harry teases, and puts his arm around Louis' middle to pull him closer. "I guess the rest is history, then. Hm," he smiles. "I like the sound of that."

"Sap," Louis tells him, all fond and perfect. "So what do you wanna do now?"

Harry hums. "Kind of want to release an album solely made up of cringey love songs dedicated to your eyes."  
  
"Absolutely not; Stan would never let me live it down." But Louis' grinning, a little, and he hasn't stopped playing with Harry's fingers.  
  
" _And_ _oooooohh_ ," Harry begins to croon terribly, making up a frankly awful tune. _"Your eyes so blueeeeee....I just have to coo....uh....the cows go moooo...."_  
  
_"I hate youuu,"_ Louis finishes, rolling his eyes.  
  
"Uh-uh," Harry shakes his head. "You already said you love me, can't take it back now."  
  
"Don't remember that bit in my contract."  
  
Harry tuts. "Didn't read the fine print."  
  
"Ah, rookie error," Louis kisses him, smiling. "I'll be sure to wear my glasses next time."  
  
"Hm," Harry feels himself beaming, and prods Louis' side. "Not gonna be a next time."  
  
"No," Louis agrees. "Suppose not."  
  
They fall into kissing then, deep and slow and perfect, and end up not leaving the bedroom for several hours.

***

After that, Harry makes them a big breakfast / lunch, or at least tries to while Louis wraps his arms around his back and hums into his shoulder blades. They eat it at the kitchen table, grinning dopily at each other, and Louis keeps kicking him under the table and stealing his bits of bacon and it’s sort of incredible.

“So,” Harry hums once they’re done, licking the last bit of ketchup off his finger. “I, like, know the answer to this but, I dunno. Gotta ask.”

Louis raises an eyebrow. “What?”

"We, like, gonna come out?"

Louis' eyes narrow. "Why the fuck wouldn't we?"

Harry holds his palms up in truce. "Alright, alright, I said it was a pointless question. Just wanted to make sure."

Louis relaxes, slightly sheepish. "Right, sorry. Bit of a sore-spot still, I guess."

"Me too," Harry admits. "Which is exactly why I wanted to make sure we were on the same page."

Louis nods. "Alright. So, like, how do you want to do it?"  
  
Harry pushes his lips together, humming in contemplation. "Could post a picture of your naked arse on instagram," he suggests. "Caption it 'mine'."  
  
Louis nods, looking pensive. "Classy. Or we could go to Oxford Street and just make out."  
  
"I do like making out," Harry agrees. "Should probably consult our management, though."  
  
Louis sighs. "Yeah, probably."  
  
Harry reaches across the table and grabs his hand. "Won't really matter how we come out, though, as long as we do."  
  
He hears Louis' smile in his voice just as much as he sees it. "Yeah, Haz. I'll finally be able to pinch your arse again on stage and not be roasted alive."  
  
Harry snorts. "I was thinking more along the lines of holding your hand down the street, but sure: whatever floats your boat."  
  
"Hey," Louis shifts. "You ever wonder what it must be like to be one of our fans? Pretty crazy stuff. Bet they're all going ape shit on the internet."  
  
Harry chuckles. "Damn, yeah. Can't believe so many people still believed we were in love before we even realised we were still in love."  
  
There's a wide grin on Louis' face. "Suppose they saw the infectious love in your eyes every time you stared at me," he coos, fluttering his eyelashes.  
  
Harry rolls his eyes. "Dick."

“You’re in _love_ with me,” Louis informs him, smug.

Grinning, Harry takes their plates to the sink. “You can prove nothing.”

***

In the end, they’re papped a couple times on the street beaming at each other, and with Harry’s starry-eyed interview already causing quite a stir, rumours run wild. Management let it simmer for a while, let speculation build and fans go crazy, and then arrange for Harry and Louis to be papped kissing with a couple photos of them afterwards, gently pulling back and smiling all soft. They go on _Ellen_ , then, being told to act as loved-up as possible, and maybe there’s a little more shoving each other and merciless teasing than management had been going for, but they’re still the story of the year, headlining all the papers with their romantic love story. Suddenly there’s a million ‘inside sources’ revealing how Harry had pined for Louis for years, hinting that certain songs might have been written about him, describing having to console him and lamenting how Louis had been painfully oblivious for so long before slowly falling back in love with him.

_'It all culminated with the interview Harry did,’ our source, close to the boys, concluded. ‘Things had been tense between them and neither knew how the other felt, but Louis watched when Harry went on that show and...well. You’ve seen the interview, I’m sure. It gave him hope, and sure enough, here they are. Their relationship just inspires me, you know?’_

It’s all a little overdone, in Harry’s opinion, but the tidal wave of publicity and good press make for a brilliant selling point for One Direction getting back together, with management ensuring each article concludes with promises of a ‘whole new sound’ and ‘big things’ to come with the album they’ve begun to work on. Somehow, the press manage to sell the story with as little emphasis as possible on Modest! being the ones to pressurise them into breaking up in the first place, instead going on and on about the pressures of fame and being a popstar, and gleefully recounting the bitter longing and irony of a mutual break-up with both being so reluctant to actually break-up. There’s a little public backlash, obviously, but when hasn’t there been? There’s also a lot of good things, lovely fan messages of support and stories of inspiring young people.

Sometimes Louis’ll grumble about being sold as the next big Nicholas Sparks novel, but Harry doesn’t mind too much, not when he’s encouraged to be as affectionate as possible and they get to pose in cutesy photoshoots like taking Poppy to play in the park, windswept and wintery. The shot of Harry kneeling down and buttoning up her coat for her gets hung up on his fridge, and the picture of Harry and Louis walking away from the camera, holding hands with Poppy balanced on Louis’ shoulders, soon becomes a fan-favourite. True, it’s all a little saccharine, but it’s a damn sight better than their previous selling-points, and — well, maybe Harry’s sort of stupidly happy about it all.

Because they’ve had their rest, and they’ve done their own things for a while, and now they’re all getting back together to make music and tour the world, and this time there won’t be any big choking secrets, or so he hopes. Louis works out a good deal about getting to see Poppy as much as possible, and Briana agrees with a reluctantly fond roll of the eyes to send him daily updates. There’ll still be downsides to being famous, there’ll still be pressures and horrible media stories but it’s also maybe worth it? Harry likes being a popstar, within reason, and he likes the guys and he loves Louis, so.

Despite what Niall says — _I can’t fucking believe I have to ride on a tour bus with you two shagging on every surface again —_ it’s gonna be pretty great. Harry looks to his left and grins as Louis winks at him.

Yeah, it's gonna be pretty great.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done!!
> 
> I was actually gonna throw in some more tabloid puns in response to Harry's one night stand, but they sort of ruined the mood I was going for. Still, I'm quite fond of them, so I thought I'd chuck em in here:
> 
> _Sorry kids! Styles sticking to new strumpet style!_
> 
> _Harry Styles is OUT and about!_
> 
> _How many has Haz had?_  
> 
> _No control? Harry heating things up with mystery man!_
> 
> Anyway thanks for reading, and if you want you can find me on my [tumblr](http://thatsbyronic.tumblr.com/). x


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